Stress Free Poetry

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)