Tuesday, November 11, 2014
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.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British poet. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore (l. 9-14). . .
The Unabridged William Shakespeare, William George Clark and William Aldis Wright, eds. (1989) Running Press.