I love Shakespeare’s sonnets. No, I absolutely adore Shakespeare’s sonnet’s.
Should it come as any surprise, I have a romantic streak about a galactic mile wide, and the sonnet’s speak into my very bones. It is in the poets eye that romantic love is seen most clearly, and the troubles that will come: and it is the poets soul that can navigate the turbulence when it comes.
This is my favourite, for reasons of poetry, of abiding love, and of romance.
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 wand’ring 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 prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.