Sonnet 86: Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
He nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
William Shakespeare
Vous avez aimé cette poésie ? faites la connaître !
D'autres poésies de William Shakespeare
Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone...
Sonnet 28: How can I then return in happy plight
How can I then return in happy plight
That am debarred the...
Sonnet 27: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose...
Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my...
Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public...
Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Thy...
Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is...
Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
So long as youth...
Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse
So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a...
Sonnet 20: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou,...
Précédentes poésies
Young in New Orleans
starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night...
Yes Yes
when God created love he didn't help most
when God created...
Writing
often it is the only
thing
between you and
Working Out
Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
prostitute
Who In The Hell Is Tom Jones?
I was shacked with a ...
