SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I'll never tire of this sonnet. Beauty harvested by the Time's sickle, the confidence that doesn't tremble amidst the storms of life, and the image of soul-mates united on the brink of a cliff, steps away from the despair that destroys those who do not understand the power of love . . . these images inspire me and beautifully illustrate the truths I too have discovered in true friendship and love.
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