What's in the brain that ink may character...
Sonnet 108What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what new to register, That may express my love or thy dear merit? Nothing sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must, each day say o'er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page, Finding the first conceit of love there bred Where time and outward form would show it dead. Listen to the recording!Free sample available for this sonnet! Click HERE
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What can be written about you that hasn’t already been written? What new things can one talk about or notice, that could express my love or your worth differently?
Nothing, dear boy, but just like daily prayers I have to say the same thing over and over again. I can’t consider re-iteration as being outdated: things like I’m yours, you’re mine, just like when I first invoked your name. Divine love is vacuum packed in an age-defying case which is impervious to wrinkles and dust. It makes a servant of Age, and keeps the initial inspiration of love hermetically sealed, when you’d suppose from outward signs it’s quite gone.