William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

Sonnet Cviii - Poem by William Shakespeare

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.


Comments about Sonnet Cviii by William Shakespeare

  • Rookie - 104 Points Brian Jani (4/26/2014 9:27:00 AM)

    Awesome I like this poem, check mine out (Report) Reply

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  • Rookie - 104 Points Brian Jani (4/26/2014 9:26:00 AM)

    Awesome I like this poem, check mine out (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: love, time, sonnet



Poem Submitted: Friday, May 18, 2001

Poem Edited: Friday, May 18, 2001


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