Shall I compare thee to the Bard's best rhyme?
Thou art less iambic and even less contained:
Certain verses grow heavy over the course of time,
And rhythmic metres art all too restrained:
Sometime too blunt the blade of the metaphor cuts,
And often is his bold intention deflated;
And every line so vacuously flaunts and struts,
By will, or poet's flawed ego, fated:
But thy wordless silence shall not wane,
Nor lose composure of the still breath thou inhal'st;
Nor shall Noise drag thou into his clamorous terrain
When unbounded Quiet thou still do crav’st:
So long as minds can strive for soundless peace,
And let these words dissolve; all restlessness will cease.
And here the original -
Sonnet VIII
- Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
