Sonnet 2 by William Shakespeare

Sonnet 2 

by William Shakespeare

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,

Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:

Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,

If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'

Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

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 All poets, all writers are political. They either maintain the status quo, or they say, “Something’s wrong, let’s change it for the better.” —Sonia Sanchez—

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 A marvellous power of expression over language often distinguishes genius. —George Edward Woodberry—

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Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private. —Allen Ginsberg—

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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning. —Stanley Kunitz—

The House At Pooh Corner

 

Title: The House At Pooh Corner

Author: A. A. Milne

Illustrator: Ernest H. Shepard

Rating: ★★★★★

Age Category: Children's Literature

    Dust Jacket Synopsis: 

    "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."

    "How old shall I be then?"

    "Ninety-nine."

    Winnie-the-Pooh already has one wonderful book about himself and his friends. So we are fortunate indeed that A. A. Milne thought to provide us with this delightful companion volume. 

    Here you will rediscover all the characters you met in Winnie-the-Pooh: Christopher Robin, Eeyore, Owl, Piglet, Kanga, tiny Roo, and, of course, Pooh himself. Joining them is the thoroughly bouncy and lovable Tigger, who leads the rest into some very colorful adventures. 

    Christopher Robin is not yet a hundred, nor is Pooh ninety-nine. But we are sure to remember them, even when they are.

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Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. —Paul Engle—