Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVI

[butterfly]

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Comments

[miss-saigon.livejournal.com]

So, LJ is this weird thing, because you feel like you're really getting to know someone even though you don't really know them and this is a weird place to make this comment, but I wanted to tell you that I love seeing you post these sonnets. It's, like this little individual quirk about you that I know from reading your LJ. I actually thought of you, when I was London because I saw "Twelfth Night", at the Globe. It, was this traditional production with an all male cast and I remember thinking Butterfly would really like this. Anyway, this is totally random and rambling, but I just thought I'd share that with you.

Re:

[butterfly.livejournal.com]

Aw. Thank you. That's really sweet. And it would be cool to see that. I bet I would have loved it.