Peace hath her victories, No less renowned than war. MILTON: Sonnet xvi. Peace was on the earth and in the air.
peace war earth air sonnet victories
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captive ill. SHAKS.: Sonnet lxvi. Rich in saving common sense, And, as the greatest only are. In his simplicity sublime.
simplicity truth sense good simple common rich sonnet sublime saving
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
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I thought I'd begin by reading a sonnet by Shakespeare, but then I thought, why should I? He never reads any of mine.
reading shakespeare thought begin sonnet
I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as ditch water: I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone.
beds life hate water bed sonnet dull phobias
Yeah, that's right; they were together. Someone put it very distinctly once to me when they thought Brando was the force, in a way, and the genius, and James Dean was kind of a sonnet, you know? And to describe Jimmy Dean as a sonnet I feel it's really accurate.
force genius thought kind feel james sonnet
I respect the challenge of creating something of quality within the very tight confines set by commercial TV,.. That's an appealing idea, meeting that kind of a challenge. To draw a very long bow, it's the same sort of challenge John Donne would have faced when sitting down to write a sonnet. In one way it's so limiting, but in another way it brings out the best of your creative impulses.
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I intended an Ode, / And it turned to a Sonnet.
sonnet
Art and music are an integral part of learning. You can't study English literature and poetry without learning a Shakespeare sonnet.
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A sonnet is a moment's monument, -/ Memorial from the Soul's eternity/ To one dead deathless hour.
dead sonnet
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach
soul count depth sonnet love
Sonnet XVIII do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.I love you as the plant that never bloomsbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
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Am I right in suggesting that ordinary life is a mean between these extremes, that the noble man devotes his material wealth to lofty ends, the advancement of science, or art, or some such true ideal; and that the base man does the opposite by concentrating all his abilities on the amassing of wealth?'Exactly; that is the real distinction between the artist and the bourgeois, or, if you prefer it, between the gentleman and the cad. Money, and the things money can buy, have no value, for there is no question of creation, but only of exchange. Houses, lands, gold, jewels, even existing works of art, may be tossed about from one hand to another; they are so, constantly. But neither you nor I can write a sonnet; and what we have, our appreciation of art, we did not buy. We inherited the germ of it, and we developed it by the sweat of our brows. The possession of money helped us, but only by giving us time and opportunity and the means of travel. Anyhow, the principle is clear; one must sacrifice the lower to the higher, and, as the Greeks did with their oxen, one must fatten and bedeck the lower, so that it may be the worthier offering.
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Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, For that your self ye daily such doe see: But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit, And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me. For all the rest, how ever fayre it be, Shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew: But onely that is permanent and freeFrom frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew. That is true beautie: that doth argue youTo be divine and borne of heavenly seed: Deriv'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al trueAnd perfect beauty did at first proceed. He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made, All other fayre lyke flowres untymely fade.
poetry sonnet
As an unperfect actor upon the stageWho with much fear is put besides his partOr some fierce thing, replete with too much rageWhose strengths abundance weakens his own heartSo I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love's riteAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decayO'ercharged with burthen of my own love's mighto, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breastWho plead for love, and look for recompenseMore than that tongue that more hath express'd.O, learn to read what silent love hath writTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
shakespeare sonnet
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leavesWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheavesBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsakeAnd die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defenceSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
time shakespeare clock sonnet
My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire his death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
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