Sonnet XXVII: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
Sonnet XXVII: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
Miscellany
Other poems by William Shakespeare (read randomly)
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that …
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most de
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
