A New Acquaintance of Thy Mind: Day 1

Fourteen days. Fourteen lines. Fourteen sonnets. (And, I hope, Shakespeare's pardon for making merry with his work in this fashion. I promise to play with only XVIII.)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,

Or to the fairest morn of balmy spring?

Or, churlish out of season, shall I say

Thine not the beauty whereof I must sing?

Could I but say, and own it not a lie,

Could I but honour other names than thine,-

But what avail me though I shall deny?

Thine is my verse; naught save my will is mine.

The bloom is fading from the summer's face,

And hoar shall sweep the laurels from her brow,

But thou - no years shall mar thy sweetest grace;

Thou, kept in this, canst never alter now.

Though fading springs and passing suns shall seek,

None now shall steal the splendour from thy cheek.