Thinking of the greatness of Shakespeare that cannot or at least has not yet been surpassed.
Today I asked my husband what his favorite sonnet is, and he said Number 73 . Read it here and see what you think of his choice.
Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
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 ruin'd 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 death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
I think that he chose wisely and that in the coronavirus days we are becoming even more aware of how fragile all that we love is.
The sonnet is so perfect in form with its three quatrains each explaining another example of the near the end of things--the late time of year; the late time of a day and and the late time of a human life.
Then comes the direct statement of the wisdom of the sonnet in the final couplet.
That we should not love less or grow bitter when we can see that we are near the end of a year, or a day, or a life, but be inspired to love that fading glory even more.
TO LOVE THAT WELL WHICH WE MUST LEAVE ERE LONG.
No comments:
Post a Comment