Poet William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare Poems

  • 501.  
    So is it not with me as with that muse,
    Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven it self for ornament doth use
  • 502.  
    Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
    With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity,
  • 503.  
    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,
  • 504.  
    When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
    I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
  • 505.  
    How heavy do I journey on the way,
    When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
  • 506.  
    When my love swears that she is made of truth
    I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
  • 507.  
    Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
    Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be,
  • 508.  
    In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
  • 509.  
    Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
    With eager compounds we our palate urge, As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
  • 510.  
    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,
  • 511.  
    Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
    But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
  • 512.  
    Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
    Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
  • 513.  
    That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
    For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect,
Total 513 poems written by William Shakespeare

Poem of the day

The Dome Of Sunday
 by Karl Shapiro

With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face
In film of varnish brightly fixed
And through a polished hand-lens deeply seen,
Sunday at noon through hyaline thin air
Sees down the street,
And in the camera of my eye depicts
Row-houses and row-lives:
Glass after glass, door after door the same,

Read complete poem

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