| | Sonnet 60 |
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, |
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So do our minutes hasten to their end, |
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Each changing place with that which goes before, |
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In sequent toil all forwards do contend. |
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Nativity, once in the main of light, |
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Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, |
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Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, |
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And time that gave doth now his gift confound. |
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Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth |
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And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; |
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Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, |
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And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. |
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And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, |
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Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. |
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| Sonnet 60 |
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As the waves move toward the pebbled shore, so do the minutes we have to live hasten toward their end, each moment changing place with the one before, striving to move forward with successive efforts. Everything that has been born, though it once swam in that broad ocean of light that exists before birth, crawls its way up the shores of maturity, where it faces cruel obstacles to its glory. Time, which gives everything, now destroys its own gift. Time pierces the beauty of youth, drawing wrinkles in beauty's forehead. Time devours the choicest specimens of nature; nothing exists that it won't mow down with its scythe. And yet my verses will last into the future, praising your worth despite Time's cruel hand. |
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