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

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,

Read complete poem

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