Poetry is honey for the soul
Today, we skip back in time. This is a privilege to go back and forth in poetry! From a contemporary American poet to a 16th/17th British poet. THE British poet, would some say. The poet or ONE OF THE poets, Anyway, I do not think Shakespeare needs an introduction. But, yet, there is a twist here again.
Olga offers us her choice of the 130th sonnet
as read by Alan Rickman.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
And why would we leave Shakespeare and Dowland? In memoriam Alan Rickman:
poetry, music and voices.