So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems:
With April’s first-born flowers and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me true in love but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair,
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Sonnet 21 by William Shakespeare
0 views today | 0 total views | 109 words | 0.57 pages | read in 1 mins
Disclaimer: All the stories, poems and images used on this website, unless otherwise noted are assumed to be in the public domain. If you feel your image or story or poem should not be here, please email us to [email protected] and it will be promptly removed.
Note: We do not use any of our content for commercial purpose.