Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half of your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of na antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
Poetry is something I need to learn more about. There have been so many times when I've swelled with emotions I wanted to express, and was unable to find a word or gesture that brought justice to my experience. Shakespeare, like all great artists, makes it seem effortless.
~ Sonnet XVII, Shakespeare
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