Poet William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare Poems

  • 451.  
    Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
    Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents
  • 452.  
    My love is as a fever, longing still
    For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
  • 453.  
    A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
    Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
  • 454.  
    That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
  • 455.  
    The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
  • 456.  
    That time of year thou mayst in me behold
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
  • 457.  
    Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
    And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy,
  • 458.  
    My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
  • 459.  
    As a decrepit father takes delight
    To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
  • 460.  
    Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
    And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
  • 461.  
    Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
    Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
  • 462.  
    If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
    Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,' And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
  • 463.  
    Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
    When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
  • 464.  
    When icicles hang by the wall
    And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall,
  • 465.  
    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,
  • 466.  
    THY bosom is endeared with all hearts
    Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead: And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
  • 467.  
    Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
    Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
  • 468.  
    That time of year thou mayst in me behold
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
  • 469.  
    That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
    And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
  • 470.  
    Against that time, if ever that time come,
    When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
  • 471.  
    For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any
    Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
  • 472.  
    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,
  • 473.  
    No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
    Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud, Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
  • 474.  
    Let those who are in favour with their stars
    Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
  • 475.  
    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
  • 476.  
    Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
    How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
  • 477.  
    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
  • 478.  
    O, how I faint when I of you do write,
    Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might
  • 479.  
    WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
    But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day!
  • 480.  
    The forward violet thus did I chide:
    Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
  • 481.  
    TH' expense of Spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
  • 482.  
    O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
    When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
  • 483.  
    Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
    Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
  • 484.  
    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances,
  • 485.  
    Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
    Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
  • 486.  
    Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
    And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
  • 487.  
    So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
    Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd treasure, The which he will not every hour survey,
  • 488.  
    As an unperfect actor on the stage
    Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
  • 489.  
    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
    Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled
  • 490.  
    How can my muse want subject to invent,
    While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
  • 491.  
    So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
    Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife
  • 492.  
    Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
    One of her feather'd creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
  • 493.  
    Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
  • 494.  
    Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
    Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
  • 495.  
    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
    As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
  • 496.  
    'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
    When not to be receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd
  • 497.  
    THEY that have power to hurt and will do none,
    That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
  • 498.  
    So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
    Like a deceived husband; so love's face May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
  • 499.  
    That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
    For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect,
  • 500.  
    When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
    The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
Total 513 poems written by William Shakespeare

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A March Day In London
 by Amy Levy

The east wind blows in the street to-day;
The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey.
'Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire,
Of cold despair and of hot desire,
Which chills the flesh to aches and pains,
And sends a fever through all the veins.

From end to end, with aimless feet,
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