Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Variations of Shakespeare
Of the Sonnets for Love and Beauty
As an imperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear plays the part or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose great strength weakens his own heart, so I, with feeble self'trust, forget to say the perfect orchestration of love's rite, causing love's strength to decay, over'burdening love's might. Let my orchestrated words then, be the eloquence, the silent sage of my cloistered breast, pleading for love and its recompense, more than that tongue of fear has more often expressed. So learn to read what silent love has writ, to hear with eyes what belongs to love's fine wit
Consider a royal flower, its beautiful leaves spread..yet, like the Marigold in the sun's eye, while in themselves their pride lays buried, a simple frown, and they in their glory die. Or even the perfect warrior famous, undefeated, after a thousand victories, once foiled is from the book of honor readily deleted, including all victories for which he toiled. Then, happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove, nor be removed
From Beauty does desire increase, that Beauty's rose may forever live, and as Beauty blossoms and by time do the pedals fall, Beauty falls, but never the memory of its feeling. Thus wedded we are to Beauty's rose, but so readily does the body fuel self'beauty's flame, making famine by wanton flame. And as foe to one's sweet self, to one's self, one inevitably will be cruel. Yet, the feeling of Beauty's rose is always fresh, and Beauty is overlord to spring..within one is the blossom's seed flourishing..while the vain hoards all, their seed decays, un'nourished
When forty winters has besieged the brow, and dug deep trenches in Beauty's field, youth's proud appearance, so gazed upon now, will be like a tattered weed, withered and alone. And then, being asked where did Beauty go, where all the treasure of lusty days has gone, with deep'sunken eyes that once lived in vain, what utters is a consuming shame and insincere praise. But if one could answer, "By love has my Beauty entered and lives on, in all I touched," the withered weed instead, becomes the memory of how love inspires Beauty, Beauty begetting Beauty. If this were true, Beauty becomes new'made when one becomes old, and feels the blood warm, even when it is cold
And then, let not the rise of winter's rough hand deface the summer to be distilled. Make sweet some vial with Beauty's treasure before it be self'killed. Gifts of Beauty are loaned freely and makes happy those who treasure it dearly. With the means to love, and loving, one inevitably inspires one's self within the beloved
These hours that with gentle work did frame the lovely vision where every eye does dwell, will turn life's pain to the very same, even the ugly within Beauty vain..for never'resting Time leads summer on to hideous winter and destroys it there...sap checked by frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty over'snowed, bareness..everywhere, its haunting song. Then, had not summer's sweet distillation left a liquid prisoner confined in walls of glass, Beauty's perfume would leave Beauty bereft..neither it nor no remembrance would be left. But Beauty's effects are readily distilled by mind, and though they with winter meet, lose only their outward form, for their memory..lives sweet
Shall I compare thee Love, to a summer's day? You are more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease has all too short a date. Sometimes too hot, the eye of heaven shines, and often is its gold complexion dimmed..and every Beauty from Beauty sometimes declines, by chance, or by nature's ever changing course of mind. But your eternal summer shall not fade, nor loose possession of Beauty new'made, nor shall Death ever brag that you have wandered into its shade, when, in eternal words of Time, you grow'st. So long as humans can breathe!..or eyes can see..so long lives this, and this gives life to thee
Devouring Time, blunt your lion's paw, and make the earth devour her own sweet brood. Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaw, and burn demi'gods with their blood. Make seasons glad or sad by your fleeting wish, and do whatever you will, swift'footed Time, to the wide world and all its fading sweets. But I forbid you one most heinous crime...mark not, with your passing, love's fair brow. Draw no lines there with your ageless pen. In your course, love untouched do allow, for Beauty's touch upon all human. Yet, even by this do your worst, old Time..for despite your wrong, my love in rhyme, shall ever live young