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HOME
Watch as our
GardenZeitgeist takes shape
GALLERIES
1999
2000
2001
2002
Rest and enjoy!
POETRY
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suggestions,
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ME
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SONNET XCIX
by William Shakespeare
The forward violet thus did I
chide;
Sweet theif, whence didst thou steal thy
sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple
pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion
dwells,
In my love's veins thou has too grossly
dy'd.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy
hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did
stand,
One blushing shame, another white
despair:
A third, not red nor white, had stolen of
both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy
breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his
growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could
see,
But sweet of colour it had stolen from
thee.
from:
BBC
On-line Nature Poetry
Collection
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