On Things Eternal

It's been awhile -- many things have changed, but poetry, as always - like art, like love, like God, well it remains. 

 Missed you guys. Here's something for today.

(Sonnet 14)

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:
   Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
   Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.

 
Bring him home

William Shakespeare