Thursday, April 15, 2010

Sonnet 116

good old Bill said it so well:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

To wit:

Love suffereth long, and is kind

Sometimes the old things are best, the old sayings the wisest.


Carteach said...

Too many times, love is a pathway to searing pain. The scar tissue can build to an impenetrable armor.

Jon said...

Love is a silver cord that binds you no matter how far away you may be. You can trip over it, choke yourself on it, or stretch it to the limit, but you can't remove the bind. It's forever. Accept it as a blessing, or a curse; the choice is yours.