Apr 4, 2025
If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say ‘This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say ‘This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’
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SONNET 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces
The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers yellow’d with their age
Be scorn’d like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
William Shakespeare, c. 1609
"I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.” - Pablo Neruda, "One Hundred Love Sonnets: Sonnet XVII”, trans. Mark Eisner
Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; So I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Richard Barnfield, Sonnet 17
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Sir Patrick Stewart recites Shakespeare to his wife Sunny Ozell.
“If I could write the beauty of your eyes/And in fresh numbers number all your graces,/The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies—/Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’ ”
- Sonnet 17, William Shakespeare
Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I nor you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.