#sonnet — Public Fediverse posts

Liberté
— L'Homme et l'amer —

L'Homme épris de liberté,
Toujours chérira l'amer.
La solitude est sa mère,
Et son père un entêté.

À ce vieux vin vinaigré,
Fait du sang noir des chimères,
Les vérités s'énumèrent
Aux tristes clowns enchaînés.

Et n'attends pas leur pardon,
Mais une volée de plomb
De ces Augustes jaloux :
Moralistes loqueteux.

— Ne plus être sous le joug
De ces cieux calamiteux ! —

#sonnet
#poetry
#poésie
#photography
#photographie

Liberté
— L'Homme et l'amer —

L'Homme épris de liberté,
Toujours chérira l'amer.
La solitude est sa mère,
Et son père un entêté.

À ce vieux vin vinaigré,
Fait du sang noir des chimères,
Les vérités s'énumèrent
Aux tristes clowns enchaînés.

Et n'attends pas leur pardon,
Mais une volée de plomb
De ces Augustes jaloux :
Moralistes loqueteux.

— Ne plus être sous le joug
De ces cieux calamiteux ! —

#sonnet
#poetry
#poésie
#photography
#photographie

Liberté
— L'Homme et l'amer —

L'Homme épris de liberté,
Toujours chérira l'amer.
La solitude est sa mère,
Et son père un entêté.

À ce vieux vin vinaigré,
Fait du sang noir des chimères,
Les vérités s'énumèrent
Aux tristes clowns enchaînés.

Et n'attends pas leur pardon,
Mais une volée de plomb
De ces Augustes jaloux :
Moralistes loqueteux.

— Ne plus être sous le joug
De ces cieux calamiteux ! —

#sonnet
#poetry
#poésie
#photography
#photographie

Liberté
— L'Homme et l'amer —

L'Homme épris de liberté,
Toujours chérira l'amer.
La solitude est sa mère,
Et son père un entêté.

À ce vieux vin vinaigré,
Fait du sang noir des chimères,
Les vérités s'énumèrent
Aux tristes clowns enchaînés.

Et n'attends pas leur pardon,
Mais une volée de plomb
De ces Augustes jaloux :
Moralistes loqueteux.

— Ne plus être sous le joug
De ces cieux calamiteux ! —

#sonnet
#poetry
#poésie
#photography
#photographie

Sonnet 032 - XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare

Sonnet 032 - XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare

Sonnet 032 - XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare

Sonnet 048 - XLVIII
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare

Sonnet 048 - XLVIII
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare

Sonnet 048 - XLVIII
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet #poem #Shakespeare