Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul...
Sonnet 107Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. Listen to the recording!Free sample available for this sonnet! Click HERE
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Neither my fears, nor other people’s predictions can gain control of my love – supposedly doomed to certain death. Astrological portents are all spent and done, uncertainties are a thing of the past and we’re going to live forever. In this great age, my love looks as fresh as dew, and Death himself is my servant; because in spite of anything he can do, I’ll live on in this verse, while he dwells in silence with the unsung dead. You too in this will be forever enshrined, enduring after all present day pomp and glory.