A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#34

Synopsis:

In this sonnet the sun is again overtaken by clouds, but now the sun/beloved is accused of having betrayed the poet by promising what is not delivered. The poet writes that while the beloved’s repentance and shame do not rectify the damage done, the beloved’s tears are so precious that they serve as atonement.

 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke?

’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak

That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace.

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.

Th’ offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the strong offense’s ⌜cross.⌝

 Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

 And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#33

Synopsis:

The poet describes the sun first in its glory and then after its being covered with dark clouds; this change resembles his relationship with the beloved, who is now “masked” from him. But if even the sun can be darkened, he writes, it is no wonder that earthly beings sometimes fail to remain bright and unstained. (This is the first of a series of three poems in which the beloved is pictured as having hurt the poet through some unspecified misdeed.)

 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy,

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.

Even so my sun one early morn did shine

With all-triumphant splendor on my brow,

But, out alack, he was but one hour mine;

The region cloud hath masked him from me now.

 Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

 Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#32

Synopsis:

The poet imagines his poems being read and judged by his beloved after the poet’s death, and he asks that the poems, though not as excellent as those written by later writers, be kept and enjoyed because of the love expressed in them.

 

If thou survive my well-contented day

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more resurvey

These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,

Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,

And though they be outstripped by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

“Had my friend’s muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought

To march in ranks of better equipage.

 But since he died and poets better prove,

 Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.”

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#31

Synopsis:

The poet sees the many friends now lost to him as contained in his beloved. Thus, the love he once gave to his lost friends is now given wholly to the beloved.

 

Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts

Which I by lacking have supposèd dead,

And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought burièd.

How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,

As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things removed that hidden in ⌜thee⌝ lie.

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

That due of many now is thine alone.

 Their images I loved I view in thee,

 And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

#30

Synopsis:

The poet pictures his moments of serious reflection as a court session in which his memories are summoned to appear. As they come forward, he grieves for all that he has lost, but he then thinks of his beloved friend and the grief changes to joy.

 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste;

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,

And weep afresh love’s long since canceled woe,

And moan th’ expense of many a vanished sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er

The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

 All losses are restored and sorrows end.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#29

Synopsis:

The poet, dejected by his low status, remembers his friend’s love, and is thereby lifted into joy.

 

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

 For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

 That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#28

Synopsis:

Continuing the thought of s. 27, the poet claims that day and night conspire to torment him. Though he has flattered both day and night by comparing them to beautiful qualities of his beloved, day continues to exhaust him and night to distress him.

 

How can I then return in happy plight

That am debarred the benefit of rest,

When day’s oppression is not eased by night,

But day by night and night by day oppressed;

And each, though enemies to either’s reign,

Do in consent shake hands to torture me,

The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still farther off from thee?

I tell the day to please him thou art bright

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;

So flatter I the swart complexioned night,

When sparkling stars twire not, thou ⌜gild’st⌝ the even.

 But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

 And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#27

Synopsis:

In this first of two linked sonnets, the poet complains that the night, which should be a time of rest, is instead a time of continuing toil as, in his imagination, he struggles to reach his beloved.

 

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind when body’s work’s expired.

For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see;

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight

Presents ⌜thy⌝ shadow to my sightless view,

Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.

 Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

 For thee and for myself no quiet find.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#26

Synopsis:

The poet, assuming the role of a vassal owing feudal allegiance, offers his poems as a token of duty, apologizing for their lack of literary worth. He begs his liege lord to protect this expression of his duty until fortune allows him to boast openly of his love.

 

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written embassage

To witness duty, not to show my wit;

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it;

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

Points on me graciously with fair aspect,

And puts apparel on my tattered loving

To show me worthy of ⌜thy⌝ sweet respect.

 Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

 Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#25

Synopsis:

The poet contrasts himself with those who seem more fortunate than he. Their titles and honors, he says, though great, are subject to whim and accident, while his greatest blessing, his love, will not change.

 

Let those who are in favor with their stars

Of public honor and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.

Great princes’ favorites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,

And in themselves their pride lies burièd,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famousèd for worth,

After a thousand victories once foiled,

Is from the book of honor razèd quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.

 Then happy I, that love and am beloved

 Where I may not remove nor be removed.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609.  #24 Synopsis: This sonnet elaborates the metaphor of carrying the beloved’s picture in one’s heart. The poet claims that his eyes have painted on his heart a picture of the beloved. The poet’s body is both the picture’s frame and the shop where it is displayed. His only regret is that eyes paint only what they see, and they cannot see into his beloved’s heart.   Mine eye hath played the painter and hath ⌜stelled⌝ Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein ’tis held, And perspective it is best painter’s art. For through the painter must you see his skill To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:  They draw but what they see, know not the heart. (Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#23

Synopsis:

The poet blames his inability to speak his love on his lack of self-confidence and his too-powerful emotions, and he begs his beloved to find that love expressed in his writings.

 

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put beside 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’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O, let my books 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 hath more expressed.

 O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.

 To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#22

Synopsis:

This sonnet plays with the poetic idea of love as an exchange of hearts. The poet urges the young man to take care of himself, since his breast carries the poet’s heart; and the poet promises the same care of the young man’s heart, which, the poet reminds him, has been given to the poet “not to give back again.”

 

My glass shall not persuade me I am old

So long as youth and thou are of one date,

But when in thee Time’s furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me;

How can I then be elder than thou art?

O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

As I not for myself but for thee will,

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

 Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain.

 Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#21

Synopsis:

The poet contrasts himself with poets who compare those they love to such rarities as the sun, the stars, or April flowers. His poetry will, he writes, show his beloved as a beautiful mortal instead of using the exaggerated terms of an advertisement.

 

So is it not with me as with that muse

Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,

Making a couplement of proud compare

With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,

With April’s firstborn flowers and all things rare

That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.

O, let me, true in love, but truly write,

And then believe me, my love is as fair

As any mother’s child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air.

 Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

 I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#20

Synopsis:

The poet fantasizes that the young man’s beauty is the result of Nature’s changing her mind: she began to create a beautiful woman, fell in love with her own creation, and turned it into a man. The poet, thus deprived of a female sexual partner, concedes that it is women who will receive pleasure and progeny from the young man, but the poet will nevertheless have the young man’s love.

 

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted

Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;

A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

A man in hue all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created,

Till Nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

 But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,

 Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#19

Synopsis:

The “war with Time” announced in Sonnet 15 is here engaged in earnest as the poet, allowing Time its usual predations, forbids it to attack the young man. Should this command fail to be effective, however, the poet claims that the young man will in any case remain always young in the poet’s verse.

 

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws

And make the Earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s ⌜jaws,⌝

And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;

Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st

And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

To the wide world and all her fading sweets.

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

Him in thy course untainted do allow

For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

 Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,

 My love shall in my verse ever live young.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. 

#18

Synopsis:

In a radical departure from the previous sonnets, the young man’s beauty, here more perfect even than a day in summer, is not threatened by Time or Death, since he will live in perfection forever in the poet’s verses.

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.

 So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

(Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. #17 Synopsis: As further argument against mere poetic immortality, the poet insists that if his verse displays the young man’s qualities in their true splendor, later ages will assume that the poems are lies. However, if the young man leaves behind a child, he will remain doubly alive—in verse and in his offspring.   Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half 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 touched earthly faces.” So should my papers, yellowed with their age, Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage And stretchèd meter of an antique song.  But were some child of yours alive that time,  You should live twice—in it and in my rhyme. (Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. #16 Synopsis: Continuing the thought of s. 15, the poet argues that procreation is a “mightier way” than poetry for the young man to stay alive, since the poet’s pen cannot present him as a living being.   But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time, And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessèd 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. (Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)

A Sonnet (or short poem) from a collection written by William Shakespeare, published in 1609. #15 Synopsis: In the first of two linked sonnets, the poet once again examines the evidence that beauty and splendor exist only for a moment before they are destroyed by Time. Here the poet suggests—through wordplay on engraft—that the young man can be kept alive not only through procreation but also in the poet’s verse.   When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheerèd and checked 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 engraft you new. (Project Gutenberg, Public Domain)