Sonnet 60

Posted by megasico Nov 24 2009 03:00 GMT in megasico

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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

I love this sonnet more than any other of Shakespeare's poems or plays

Replies:

Jesus, man, I'm hiding from zombies and reading this was the most terrible thing to happen to me today.

How is it terrible?

Reply by megasico Nov 24 2009 03:48 GMT

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