Stress Free Poetry

As an unperfect actor on the stage,  Who with his fear is put besides his part,  Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;  So I, for fear of trust, forget to say  The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,  And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,  O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.  O let my books be then the eloquence  And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,  Who plead for love and look for recompense  More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.      O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:      To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.  By ( WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE )

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted  Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;  A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted  With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;  An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  Gilding the object whereupon it gaze-th;  A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,  Much steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amaze-th.  And for a woman wert thou first created;  Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  And by addition me of thee defeated,  By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.      But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,      Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure BY (WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)

When I do count the clock that tells the time,  And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;  When I behold the violet past prime,  And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white;  When lofty trees I see barren of leaves  Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,  And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves  Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,  Then of thy beauty do I question make,  That thou among the wastes of time must go,  Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake  And die as fast as they see others grow;      And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defense      Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. BY (WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)

From fairest creature we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose never might die, But as the ripper should by time decrease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to the sweet self too cruel, Thou that art now world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender, churl, makest waste in niggarding, Pity the world or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. BY (WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)