Sonnet LX
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
poem by William Shakespeare (1609)
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Related quotes
Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crookèd eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet LX - Variations In Imitation - after William Shakespeare
See below W S Sonnet LX for English and French variations
Sonnet LX
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow
Feeds on the rareities of Nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.
William SHAKESPEARE shak1_0008_shak1_0000 PST_DZX
________________________
So nnet LX Imitation - Par Vagues
Par vagues, s’approchant à la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux écument leur destin,
Chacun son précédent remplaçant en chemin,
Le tout se bousculant - avancée périlleuse.
Le Temps notre jeunesse avale et l’âme heureuse,
Avance, et, mûrissant, se voit sacrée: sa main
Dispute nos chansons, gloires d’antan, - déclin
Que le faucheur étale, éclipse malheureuse.
Le Temps reprend ses dons, de profonds sillons creuse,
Des affronts forts profonds au front jadis si saint,
En dévorant les traces de notre grâce éteinte,
Aucun ne faisant face à sa fauche rieuse!
Pourtant malgré le Temps, sa main sans pitié,
Ces lignes attendent un jour coulant de vérité.
15 December 1991 revised 2005 robi3_0508_shak1_0008 PFT_DZX see robi3_0654
Translation William SHAKESPEARE – Sonnet LX for previous version see below
__________________
Sonnet LX
Ainsi qu’aux vagues visant la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux se hâtent vers leur destin,
Chacun son précedent remplaçant en chemin,
Le tout se bousculant - avancée perilleuse.
Le temps notre jeunesse avale et l’âme heureuse,
Avance, et, mûrissant, se voit sacrée: sa main
Dispute les chansons, les gloires d’antan; - déclin
Que le faucheur étale, éclipse malheureuse.
Le Temps reprend ses dons, de profonds sillons creuse,
Des indentations au front qui fut si saint,
En dévorant les graces où la Nature s’éteint.
Qui peut faire face à sa fauche rieuse?
Pourtant malgré le Temps, sa main sans pitié,
Ces lignes attendent un jour coulant de verité.
15 December 1991
________________________
Sonnet LX Imitation
En courant tels des flots vers la plage pierreuse,
nos instants en avant roulent vers leur destin,
chacun son précédent remplaçant en chemin,
le tout se bousculant - par vagues périlleuses.
Le Temps vite avale notre jeunesse heureuse,
avance, et, mûrissant, se voit sacrée: sa main
dispute les chansons, la gloire, le déclin
que le faucheur étale, éclipse malheureuse.
Le Temps reprend ses dons, de subtils sillons creuse, -
des affronts forts profonds au front jadis si saint,
en se gavant de tout, et la Nature s’éteinte. -
qui peut s'opposer à cette fauche rieuse?
Pourtant malgré le Temps, sa main sans pitié,
ces lignes guettent un jour coulant de vérité.
15 December 1992 robi3_0654_shak1_0008 PFT_DZX see robi3_0508
Translation William SHAKESPEARE – Sonnet LX
_________________________
Sonnet LX In Imitation
Fate’s fretful oars dip fitfully once more,
weary Charon, charged with souls, is found
awaiting some predestined Thermidor
that Death to death leads, Judgement Book disbound.
Emboldened Youth flares like a meteor
to adulthood - successes then abound -
till age eclipses strength - strength sure before,
grave Time, which gave, retrieves, leaves muddy mound
as overconfidence meets fatal flaw.
Wrinkles wreak havoc. Beauty is discrowned.
Truth, firm today, tomorrow may restore
to chaos whence it came - flame Lethe drowned.
Yet one alone amidst the sands of time
stands out, flouts doubt, to feed eternal rhyme.
16 December 1991 revised 1995 and 20081031
William SHAKESPEARE Sonnet LX robi3_0510_shak1_0008 PSX_DLZ
For previous version see below
____________________
Sonn et LX In Imitation
The fretful oars dip fitfully once more,
as Charon, charged with souls, is weary found
awaiting some predestined Thermidor
which Death to death will lead deep underground.
Emboldened Youth flares like a meteor
to adulthood - successes then abound -
till age eclipses strength, - strength sure before,
grave Time, which gave, retrieves, would gift confound,
in overconfidence finds fatal flaw.
Wrinkles wreak havoc, Beauty is discrowned.
Truth, firm today, tomorrow shall restore
to chaos whence it came, - flame Lethe drowned.
Yet she alone amidst the sands of time
stands out, flouts doubt, to feed eternal rhyme.
16 December 1991 revised 1995
William SHAKESPEARE Sonnet LX robi3_0510_shak1_0008 PSX_DLZ
__________________
Sonnet LX Swift Sped
Swift sped, fled minutes hasten to dead end,
As surging waves swim over pebbled shore,
None out of sequence, all do all befriend,
Drain tide’s ride seeking those that flowed before.
Rising star, once centre of attraction,
Is soon mature, boom ripe to dire doom rots -
Nor can it fight against its strength's subtraction,
Escrow dreams redeemed, lot drawn, eyes dots.
Vain prove's youth's creams when Time with Truth plays games
Adding care’s parallels to beauty's brow,
It nothing spares, pares all, bars specious claims,
Lets nothing stand - no tithe its scythe won't mow.
Long still thy worth Time's inroads will withstand,
And None Thy birth forget, despite dread hand.
October 20 1992 slightly revised 21 October 2009 see robi3_0508 robi3_0654
William SHAKESPEARE Sonnet LX
___________________________
Sonnet LX Time Takes Back Gifts
Must, crushed, dust minutes hustle to [c]rust ends
as wake waves break on Charon’s jetsam shore?
In sequent bustle, current past befriends
beachcombing foam mocks flotsam sprayed before.
Life’s wayward goal, pole centre of attraction,
soon disappoints, ripe rots, tripe fast forgot,
though weak wish leak plugged, stopping strength's subtraction.
Time takes back gifts, tease cross lack, as eyes dot.
Dreams mould to must, stay weighs, repay plays games,
wretch sketch bars parallel on beauty's brow,
spares naught, pares fraught despairs’ false halt fault [cl]aims,
rakes in lost chips - no cost tithe scythe can cow.
Miraculous, Earth’s star stills tocsin’s hand,
rhymed worth alone Time's toxins will withstand.
24 July 2004 revised 21 October 2009 robi3_1045_shak1_0008 PSX_DZX
William SHAKESPEARE Sonnet LX
___________________
Sonnet LX – Sang to M.C.
So must flower hours bloom until doom’s tomb [bl]end,
As waves which break upon brake pebbled shore,
None out of sequence, all must all befriend,
Go [st]ride the tide, 'side those that flowed before.
Thus rising stars, once centre of attraction,
Old soon mature, once ripe begin to rot,
Misled who'd try to strive against subtraction, -
A gift Time swift redeems, each ‘I’ must dot,
Misled are those who would illusions nourish
Advancing parallels in beauty's brow
Untimely etched, may still be mocked by flourish,
Death grins at boasts when vainest peacocks crow.
Enriched is mode Time's inroads can withstand,
Comfort draw from rhymes which still Fate's hand.
4 July 2008 robi3_1813_shak1_0008 PSX_DZX
William SHAKESPEARE Sonnet LX
Maude Sonnet Cycle n.b. No separate entry included in robi3_1813
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end.
quote by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Nature that Washed Her Hands in Milk
Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At love's request to try them,
If she a mistress could compose
To please love's fancy out of those.
Her eyes he would should be of light,
A violet breath, and lips of jelly;
Her hair not black, nor overbright,
And of the softest down her belly;
As for her inside he'd have it
Only of wantonness and wit.
At love's entreaty such a one
Nature made, but with her beauty
She hath framed a heart of stone;
So as Love, by ill destiny,
Must die for her whom nature gave him
Because her darling would not save him.
But time, which nature doth despise
And rudely gives her love the lie,
Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise,
His hands do neither wash nor dry;
But being made of steel and rust,
Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.
The light, the belly, lips, and breath,
He dims, discolors, and destroys;
With those he feeds but fills not death,
Which sometimes were the food of joys.
Yea, time doth dull each lively wit,
And dries all wantonness with it.
Oh, cruel time, which takes in trust
Our youth, or joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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The Holy Scriptures II
Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a poition,
These three make up some Christian's destiny:
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.
Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss:
This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.
poem by George Herbert
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Sonnet 37: As a decrepit father takes delight
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crownèd sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store.
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee.
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
poem by William Shakespeare
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There She Stands
When the night
Seems to say
All hope is lost
Gone away
But I know
I'm not alone
By the light
She stands
There she waves
Faithful friend
Shimmering stars
Westward wind
Show the way
Carry me
To the place
She stands
Just when you think it might be over
Just when you think the fight is gone
Someone will risk his life to raise her
There she stands
There she flies
Clear blue skies
Reminds us with red
Of those that died
Washed in white
By the grave
In their strength
She stands
When evil calls itself a martyr
When all your hopes come crashing down
Someone will pull her from the rubble
There she stands
We've seen her flying torn and tattered
We've seen her stand the test of time
And through it all the fools have fallen
There she stands
By the dawn's
Early light
And through the fight
She stands
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet 90: Stella, Think Not That I
Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for praise in my young laurel tree:
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Grav'd in mine epitaph a poet's name:
Ne if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take.
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Voices at the Window
Who is it that, this dark night,
Underneath my window plaineth?
It is one who from thy sight
Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth
Every other vulgar light.
Why, alas, and are you he?
Be not yet those fancies changeed?
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estranged,
Let my change to ruin be.
Well, in absence this will die:
Leave to see, and leave to wonder.
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.
But time will these thoughts remove;
Time doth work what no man knoweth.
Time doth as the subject prove:
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle-dove.
What if you new beauties see?
Will not they stir new affection?
I will think they pictures be
(Image-like, of saints' perfection)
Poorly counterfeiting thee.
But your reason's purest light
Bids you leave such minds to nourish.
Dear, do reason no such spite!
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field
Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field;
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield,
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.
Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a suer stay.
Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,
Nor study tell what afterward shall be.
Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age,
Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage
Will shun the show that all doth mar and make.
Ay me, ay me, come, Time, shear on and shake thy hay,
It is no boot to balk thy bitter blows:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, come, Time, take everything away,
For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Nativity of Christ
Behold the father is his daughter's son,
The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,
The old of years an hour hath not outrun,
Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The Word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.
O dying souls, behold your living spring;
O dazzled eyes, behold your sun of grace;
Dull ears, attend what word this Word doth bring;
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace.
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs
This life, this light, this Word, this joy repairs.
Gift better than himself God doth not know;
Gift better than his God no man can see.
This gift doth here the giver given bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiver be.
God is my gift, himself he freely gave me;
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altered was by sin from man to beast;
Beast's food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh.
Now God is flesh and lies in manger pressed
As hay, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happy field wherein that fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew.
poem by Robert Southwell
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The Aged Lover Renounceth Love
. I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet;
As time requires for my behove,
Me thinks they are not meet.
My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Gray hairs upon my head.
For age, with stealing steps,
Hath clawed me with his crutch,
And lusty life away she leaps
As there had been none such.
My muse doth not delight
Me as she did before,
My hand and pen are not in plight
As they have been of yore.
For reason me denies
This youthly idle rhyme,
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toys in time.
The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say limping age will hedge him now
Where youth must give him place.
The harbinger of death,
To me I see him ride;
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,
Doth bid me to provide
A pickaxe and a spade,
And eke a shrouding sheet;
A house of clay for to be made
For such a guest most meet.
Me thinks I hear the clerk
That knolls the careful knell,
And bids me leave my woeful work
Ere nature me compel.
My keepers knit the knot
That youth did laugh to scorn,
Of me that clean shall be forgot
As I had not been born.
Thus must I youth give up,
Whose badge I long did wear;
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it bear.
Lo, here the bared skull
By whose bald sign I know
That stooping age away shall pull
Which youthful years did sow.
For beauty, with her band,
These crooked cares hath wrought,
And shipped me into the land
From whence I first was brought.
And ye that bide behind,
Have ye none other trust;
As ye of clay were cast by kind,
So shall ye waste to dust.
poem by Thomas Vaux
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The Aged Lover Renounceth Love
1 I loathe that I did love,
2 In youth that I thought sweet;
3 As time requires for my behove,
4 Me thinks they are not meet.
5 My lusts they do me leave,
6 My fancies all be fled,
7 And tract of time begins to weave
8 Gray hairs upon my head.
9 For age, with stealing steps,
10 Hath clawed me with his crutch,
11 And lusty life away she leaps
12 As there had been none such.
13 My muse doth not delight
14 Me as she did before,
15 My hand and pen are not in plight
16 As they have been of yore.
17 For reason me denies
18 This youthly idle rhyme,
19 And day by day to me she cries,
20 Leave off these toys in time.
21 The wrinkles in my brow,
22 The furrows in my face,
23 Say limping age will hedge him now
24 Where youth must give him place.
25 The harbinger of death,
26 To me I see him ride;
27 The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,
28 Doth bid me to provide
29 A pickaxe and a spade,
30 And eke a shrouding sheet;
31 A house of clay for to be made
32 For such a guest most meet.
33 Me thinks I hear the clerk
34 That knolls the careful knell,
35 And bids me leave my woeful work
36 Ere nature me compel.
37 My keepers knit the knot
38 That youth did laugh to scorn,
39 Of me that clean shall be forgot
40 As I had not been born.
41 Thus must I youth give up,
42 Whose badge I long did wear;
43 To them I yield the wanton cup
44 That better may it bear.
45 Lo, here the bared skull
46 By whose bald sign I know
47 That stooping age away shall pull
48 Which youthful years did sow.
49 For beauty, with her band,
50 These crooked cares hath wrought,
51 And shipped me into the land
52 From whence I first was brought.
53 And ye that bide behind,
54 Have ye none other trust;
55 As ye of clay were cast by kind,
56 So shall ye waste to dust.
poem by Thomas Lord Vaux
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Sonnet 39: O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone.
O, absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain
By praising him here who doth hence remain!
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet 39
O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.
poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sonnet VI
Tomicki, if they'd not chide him
Who lights a praising lamp to Light
Praised, sacred and boundless Itself,
Whence every light's glow doth stem,
Then by none I'd be called fickle
If I sing virtue's beauty in thee
That's enlightened all. But learned,
Water I've sipped little, so daren't try.
Take well my wish, God marks it so;
Should the Muses tho with my lack comply,
Thy pluck, firm'ty, wisdom and manners,
Which thy state (high itself) far excede,
Shall for my verse sport unending
Be. What? True glory they'd be!
poem by Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski
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Sonet LIV
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet XIV: Alas, Have I Not
Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire,
Than did on him who first stole down the fire,
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rhubarb words you must contend,
To grieve me worse, in saying that desire
Doth plunge my well-form'd soul even in the mire
Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
Ready of wit and fearing nought but shame:
If that be sin which in fix'd hearts doth breed
A loathing of all loose unchastity,
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 54: O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet L: Beauty, Sweet Love
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time but till the Sun doth show,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish;
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose,
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
When thou surcharg'd with burden of thy years
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
When Time hath made a passport for thy fears,
Dated in age the Kalends of our death--
But, ah, no more: this hath been often told,
And women grieve to think they must be old.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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