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Sonnet 154
The little Love-God lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
Sonnet 154 by Shakespeare May 25, 2004
Related Words
sonnret • Sonnet • Sonnette • Sonnet 1 • Sonnet 100 • Sonnet 101 • Sonnet 148 • Sonnet 150 • Sonnet 151 • Sonnet 152
Sonnet
A style of verse, with many varied forms,
the form of Shakespeare being as proceeds:
A set of fourteen lines, each meeting norms
of length and stress, with certain rhymes agreed.
Exactly five feet are there in each line,
and yes, two syllables in every foot,
the second only stressed. These, when combined,
five iambs form. (Guess what I cannot put!)
Four stanzas are there, three quite similar,
with four lines each, the rhyming being so:
The endings of the first and third concur,
as do the second and the fourth; Although
the last has only two lines to its name,
and, lacking so, both rhymes must be the same.
the form of Shakespeare being as proceeds:
A set of fourteen lines, each meeting norms
of length and stress, with certain rhymes agreed.
Exactly five feet are there in each line,
and yes, two syllables in every foot,
the second only stressed. These, when combined,
five iambs form. (Guess what I cannot put!)
Four stanzas are there, three quite similar,
with four lines each, the rhyming being so:
The endings of the first and third concur,
as do the second and the fourth; Although
the last has only two lines to its name,
and, lacking so, both rhymes must be the same.
I was trying to write a sonnet about sonnets today. Funny how iambic pentameter can't be used to write itself.
Sonnet 153
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.
Sonnet 153 by Shakespeare May 25, 2004
Sonnet
The sonnet is a poetic form of fourteen lines -- everything else about it has been experimented with.
1. Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth:
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
2. W. B. Yeats' Leda and the Swan:
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
1. Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth:
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
2. W. B. Yeats' Leda and the Swan:
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
Sonnet by dawn easterbrook May 12, 2009
Sonnet
1) A poem, typically to express feeling of love, 14 lines in length.
2) Word used to inform friends that an attractive person is approaching.. more subtle than the phrase it is derived from - "Check out the ass on that!", and even if they hear you say 'Sonnet' then you can quickly turn it around to a chat up line regarding meaning (1).
2) Word used to inform friends that an attractive person is approaching.. more subtle than the phrase it is derived from - "Check out the ass on that!", and even if they hear you say 'Sonnet' then you can quickly turn it around to a chat up line regarding meaning (1).