As an unperfect actor on the stage...
Sonnet 23As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love and look for recompense More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. |
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I’m like an amateur actor with stage-fright, or some fearsome monster that doesn’t know what to lay into first, and, mistrusting my abilities, neglect to tell you how much I love you. I’ve got so much love it looks from the outside as if it’s stifling itself; it’s too unwieldy to be manageable.
Let my writing, rather than my tongue (which has in other times seems perfectly capable of expressing itself) tell you the workings of my heart, which begs for you to return the love it gives you.
These written words will tell you in silence what I’m unable to express in person. To “hear” with eyes is a skill peculiar to love.