Concluding the week with Shakespeare
I seriously lost the blogging inspiration this week. If I’d written posts they’d probably have been about a spooky experience I had walking to work on Monday, which would have made you all decide that I was weird, a couple of weirder still dreams I had the other night (but who actually enjoys hearing people relate stories of their nonsensical dreams?), the tragically bad hair day I had on Wednesday because I walked to work in the rain, which turns curly hair to frizz, the fact that I ate a whole punnet of mulberries almost in one go (actually, I was very chuffed to find mulberries in a shop and it reminded me of a day in my teens when my best friend and I ransacked another friend’s mulberry tree for the afternoon, turning our lips purple with the passage of mulberries, tie-dying our t-shirts by scrunching our juice-stained hands all over them, then baking mulberry pies, which nobody complained about), about the CD I am currently thrashing, which is Jars of Clay Redemption Songs, which I bought at Koorong on Saturday, when I went out there to get a book on church history, because it was only $10 (I do especially like I Need Thee Every Hour) or maybe just about the weather (but the weather has been crazy enough to write home about this week – for those of you not in Sydney we started out Spring with 35 degrees (Celsius) and thought we missed Spring altogether, then yesterday it was 14 degrees and snowed in the mountains and rained here, and is still freezing, and apparently this weekend it will be back in the thirties) … so it’s a good thing I refrained from posting. But since it is Friday tomorrow (perhaps I shall schedule this post for then) and that is poetry day, here is a poem. I thought it was time for my favourite Shakespeare sonnet, which I am amazed to discover hasn't yet featured on this blog. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds” is a sadly forsaken sentiment.
Sonnet 116
William Shakespeare
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 wandering 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 proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.