but this one is my favourite

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 oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


Gordie said...

"I'm as innocent as the day is long;
The longer the day is,
the less I do wrong."


Dave said...

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Steg said...

Where else could I find The Eagles and Shakespeare within a matter of days?

Damn, I like the view here too!

I, still, like the views said...

gordie I was going to put in Our House (at the Bottom of Our Street) in honour of the new abode - but might wait until I get there first. . .

(madness is the theme of the moment right now - how did you guess?)


dave he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink sounds like a blogger to me. . .

not you, you are a man of education. . .

and mystery. . .

This business is well ended.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What mystery should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief: your noble son is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.

well, quite how educated I don't really know. . .


steg that is the wonder of a musical box, wound up and ready to play, with secrets inside, eh. . .



Steg said...

*bows low*

...and I am honoured to be part of the rabble!

Mel said...

Ummmmm.....is rabble good?

(don't make me ask himself...LOL)

Ya know, I was reading Dr. Seuss the other day.
Sadly, that's the extend of my poetry expertise. LOL

But I do like the view---greatly.

mig bardsley said...

And good memories.
Me I just stand and stare (or in fact sit and read) all amazed.

Des said...

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I, still, like the views said...

did you see it in the side bar, des, under TRUE MINDS? perhaps I ought to change that to AN EVER-FIXED M***