Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd 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 eclipses '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.
Willy, Sonnet 60.
4 comments:
where do you get all these ideas from??
I am blogrolling you...can I?
:)
I always thought that stealing a suggestion box from a wal-mart would be a good source of ideas... yeah, why not. ;-)
It reminds me of the ocean at night...which reminds me of the theme of many of Willy's sonnets, that poetry remains immortal. :)
Oh, the ocean, symbol of constancy and eternity.
I've made a couple better than this one, like "moon over growing wave" and "nocturne", on a time when I was creative and found the time to work on this.
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