Sonnet 107

here’s erica!!:

nicely done! erica, who owns and operates this amazing store outside boston, is a fabulous person, a famous jewelry artist, and a great lady to know. after volunteering weeks of her time to the recent art sale at the Museum School, she took a moment out and posed in front of a beautiful rauschenberg to read us today’s sonnet. how grateful are we?

thank you erica!

Sonnet 107
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

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