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
