Tag Archives: Sonnet

Sonnet II:

Posted by David Emeron on

But shall thy youth’s proud beauty not yet wane,
Though fifty winters shall thy brow besiege;
Each furrow earned, a worthy harvest; gaining
Greater beauty each, for youth’s unease.

Thy treasure lieth deep in Wisdom’s care;
For all shall see, as bright as doth remain
Fair beauty’s lustful youth: Beyond compare,
Shall count thy beauty’s truth; and fond sustain

Those many or those few who might impute
Thee wisdom, beauty’s blood to thee compare;
Let thy succession, warm or aught, repute
Thee not, the better to be taught; for where

May please thy children wisdom to dilute;
Yet these, thy words, made wisdom beauty’s fruit.

This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:

Sonnet II: (William Shakespeare)

Posted by David Emeron on

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:

Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’
Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

Sonnet I: Hourglass

Posted by David Emeron on

As dawn they rise whilst waning moon are we;
How fairest they wherefrom increase our lives;
Incalescence to our recondity,
As one might give, the other so deprives.

Yet in thine eye burns reason’s flame; as fell,
As rivalled, any flame of spring might be;
And seem’st thou wise to all wherewith thou dwell’,
Though reason’s merest bloom to wisdom’s tree.

And through thy tempest, still art thou as fair
In deed, in sight, content to slake and quell
The worst of spring. Thou: tender, unaware,
Dost far more bring than wouldst thou take.  As well,

Thine innocence doth thrive: awake, laid bare;
So true, wilt thou survive the world’s despair.

This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 1: William Shakespeare, Sonnet I

Posted by David Emeron on

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Continue reading →

Sonnet II: What I See

Posted by David Emeron on

Could, fine as you, another woman be,
Who surely has no equal on the Earth?
Could there have been some perfect virgin birth
Which consecrates impossibility?

Could there exist a worthy bond, as we
Have formed, through such a perfect sanctity?
Could one unearth a work of art, so free
Of flaw as you? The Angels would decree:

God made the Earth; one miracle was done,
And then within His realm did he make two.
No wonder of the world could have begun
Until the Great Almighty God, who knew
His Miracle, complete with only one,
Created me, and gave this gift to you.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Sonnet IV: One Step Away

Posted by David Emeron on

But really, I am fine as I began.
Without the curse of living free from strife,
I really have the very best of life.
Although not much is mine, I truly can

Bespeak my luck. I truly am a man
Who cannot duck his purpose, who is rife
With strength to take his coming step. That life
Is something best among, or better than

The best the universe can offer me;
Or better still–the strife that makes it sweet–
Its promise will, so  lift and ever free
My soul for endless triumph and defeat.
If only God, who gifts me so, could see
The need to keep His gifts to me discrete.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence: click here to read it all:

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Sonnet III: Step after Step

Posted by David Emeron on

First, second, third, and fourth, I walk alone
With measured footsteps, each one as the last;
My future is as hopeless as the past;
These plodding steps, the only things I own.

I face my work, I wake, I sleep, I hone
My pace to take more measured steps. Not fast
Nor slow, I have become adept at last
At going nowhere. See how I have grown

Such roots, and with such care, which but permit
The taking of a single measured step
And then another–fancy how they fit
My feet. This pace would scarcely ever let
Me eat, except that I might starve to death
And that would end the measure of my breath.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence: click here to read it all:

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