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Monday, April 23, 2012

It is Shakespeare's 448th Birthday

Morning 23, Upon Reading Sonnet 116

Let me then to this morning of darkness
Admit there are others, those who I love.
Attend to their words, though reading harks less,
They hie to their tasks with thoughts which will move.
O, no! I must write, find the breath, the mark
Of instant perfection ere I reprove;
Is it a dream, or a goal, elusive lark?
My worth is in measure, so I must move.
Time is no fool, regardless its pallor,
Its unbending urgency o’er me looms,
The hour ticks by, proceeding with valor
I yield to no one, so near to doom.
          If this be joy, then upon me shower
          No doubts of my words reaching full flower.

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