Saturday, March 3

To our dear viewers who encourage us to continue on.

I like to indulge with poetry, especially when I need to be inspired. An inspiration that is provoked by a poem and the everlasting effect of encountering a certain type of Wit is beyond ordinary. Poetry, for me, is an essential part of my world, without it, without those rhythmic words that convey a certain meaning and wisdom; I would be lost in the world.
As I have noticed, many of you are very fond of poetry, and as I, personally, do care about what is favorable to our viewers, therefore this week’s poem is a chosen sonnet by one of the most controversial Literary figure of the history of English language, the Mysterious Master William Shakespeare.
Hope, you find it pleasing too.

Sonnet 130

My Mistres eyes are nothing like the Sunne,
Currall is farre more red, then her lips red,
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:
If haires be wiers, black wiers grow on her head:
I have seene Roses damaskt,* red and white,
But no such Roses see in her cheekes,
And in some perfumes is there more delight,
Then in the breath that from my Mistres reekes,
I have to heare her speak, yet well I know,
That Musicke hath a farre more pleasing sound:
I graunt I never saw a goddess goe,
My Mistres when shee walkes treads on the ground.
And yet by heaven I thinke my love as rare,
As any she beli’d with false compare.

* Ornamented with rich patterns.


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