Sunday, November 19, 2006


To the Guy Still There on January 21st?

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

—William Shakespeare

who was, at least in sonnet mode,
rumored to have been bent like us...
but who was also married, like me...

1 comment:

  1. Amazing. That was the sonnet I memorized for an assignment in high school. I still know most of it. Thanks.