Sonnet XXIII by William Shakespeare

                     Sonnet XXIII

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O, let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hat more express’d.
   O, learn to read what silent love hath writ!
   To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

 

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A Song by Percy Bysshe Shelley

                A Song

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart’s devotion
With which I worship thine.

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The Indian Serenade by Percy Bysshe Shelley

     The Indian Serenade

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me – how knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream –
The Champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart; -
As I must on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art! 

Oh lift me from the grass! –
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast; -
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.

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Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson

                  Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I love and gladly die,
   And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
   And the hunter home from the hill.

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Blow, Thou Winter Wind by William Shakespeare

Blow, Thou Winter Wind

(song from As You Like It)

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
   As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
   Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
   Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
      This life is most jolly.
   Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
   That dost not bite so nigh
      As benefits forgot:
   Though thou the waters warp,
   Thy sting is not so sharp
      As friend remember’d not.

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photo by Andreas Krappweis at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVIC8ke/Ride+in+Snow+Storm

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Sonnet LXXVI by William Shakespeare

                     Sonnet LXXVI

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument:
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent;
   For as the sun is daily new and old,
   So is my love still telling what is told.

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A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

                 A Dirge

Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods whose branches stain,
Deep caves and dreary main, -
Wail for the world’s wrong!

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One Word Is Too Often Profaned by Percy Bysshe Shelley

One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling to falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not, -
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
That devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

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Sonnet XVI – Make War Upon This Bloody Tyrant by William Shakespeare

                    Sonnet XVI

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours;
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit.
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

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Sonnet XV – When I Consider by William Shakespeare

Sonnet XV

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth naught by shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check’d even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory:
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night
And, all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.

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(photo by scottsnyde at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mioWF5I/The+girls )

 

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