Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Sonnet XIV (14)

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet me thinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck, 
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, 
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, 
Or say with princes if it shall go well, 
By oft predict that I in heaven find: 
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; 
   Or else of thee this I prognosticate: 
   Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

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