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Posts tagged "William Shakespeare"

The Flower that Ate the Pines

All my life, I’ve heard that the vine that ate the South was a little leafy plant called kudzu. Not so in March in Macon, Georgia. The bearer of that titled crown is a brilliantly blooming flower known as wisteria. Growing up in the South, I’ve always loved—and impatiently awaited—spring’s blossoming entrance onto the stage. […]

Mike Tyson and His Beloved Trainer

If any professional athlete has the gift of gab, it is Mike Tyson. Words have proven to be profoundly significant in his life, from the infamous interviews about his relationships with the women in his life, to cussing out/threatening opponents in press conferences, to his now rather candid reflections on his crazy life in documentaries […]

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 98

SquareDance47bFor you have I been absent in the spring
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those;
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 73

A timely autumnal one:

What time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, of few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Pardon’s the Word to All: Forgiving Billy Shakespeare

A stunning essay appeared on The Millions last week, Stephen Akey’s “Shakespeare as God,” which casts a light (pun intended) on a couple of The Bard’s lesser-known “late romances,” e.g. The Winter’s Tale and Cymbeline. Now, before you glaze over, know that I hadn’t read or seen them either. They are not exactly first on […]

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 56

Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but today by feeding is allayed,
Tomorrow sharpened in his former might.
So, love, be thou; although today thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even til they wink with fullness,
Tomorrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad int’rim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that when they see
Return of love, more blessed may be the view;
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 43

But 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 bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would they shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made,
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are night to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 102

My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming.
I love not less, though less the show appear.
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days–
Not that summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage to 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 wand’ring barque,
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.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 91

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments (though new-fangled ill),
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse,
And every humour has his adjunct pleasure
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest.
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be,
And having thee of all men’s pride I boast,
Wretched in this alone: that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 38

How can my muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thank if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who’s so that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost given invention light?
Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 37

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store.
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.