have to settle for a few brief moments And watch it all dissolve into a single second And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet Or one foolish line
Courtesy of blank intuition. This lattice is torn repeatedly frame by frame. by you. And within withering syncopation in time (totality) escaped: me.
And now I concede on the night of this fifteenth song Of melancholy, of melancholy And now I will admit in this fourth line That I love you, that i love
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted Hast thou the master mistress of my passion A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted With shifting change
(by william shakespeare) Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of may
you know Yes, there's love if you want it Don't sound like no sonnet, my Lord Yes, there's love if you want it Don't sound like no sonnet, my Lord My
Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight! Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's
They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold,
Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharpen'd in his
