Sonnet CVIII -- Sonnet 108

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
      Finding the first conceit of love there bred
      Where time and outward form would show it dead.
Larry Gleason, reader
Audio not yet activated.

This project of editing The 154 Sonnets and including mp3 audio is ongoing.
00:00
/
00:00

Larry Gleason ©2018 Contact Me