The Sonnets
Sonnet 7
by William Shakespeare
Lo in the orient when the gracious light
Lo in the orient when the gracious light
Ah wherefore with infection should he live
I think the hemlock likes to stand
The grass so little has to do, —
'T is so much joy!
Going to heaven!
The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
God gave a loaf to every bird
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change
SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
What is your substance, whereof are you made
Some, too fragile for winter winds
From you have I been absent in the spring
A BIRD delicious to the taste,
Besides the autumn poets sing
Or I shall live your epitaph to make
A drop fell on the apple tree
Let those who are in favour with their stars
That god forbid, that made me first your slave
Glee! The great storm is over!
I never saw that you did painting need
Heart not so heavy as mine
Two loves I have of comfort and despair
So now I have confessed that he is thine
How careful was I when I took my way