#sonnet

I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. ↗

— Austin Dobson

#intended #ode #sonnet #turned

Sonnets are guys writing in English, imitating an Italian song form. It was a form definitely sung as often as it was recited. ↗

— Steve Earle

#english #form #guys #imitating #italian

Sonnet XVII I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#love

Sweetheart, darling, dearest, it was funny to think that these endearments, which used to sound exceedingly sentimental in movies and books, now held great importance, simple but true verbal affirmations of how they felt for each other. They were words only the heart could hear and understand, words that could impart entire pentameter sonnets in their few, short syllables. ↗

— E.A. Bucchianeri

#falling-in-love #feelings #heart #love #love-at-first-sight

I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#light

I love you as one loves certain dark things. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#love

As an unperfect actor upon the stage Who with much fear is put besides his part Or some fierce thing, replete with too much rage Whose strengths abundance weakens his own heart So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite And in mine own love's strength seem to decay O'ercharged with burthen of my own love's might o, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast Who plead for love, and look for recompense More than that tongue that more hath express'd. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#sonnet #unperfect-actor #love

Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. ↗

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

#life #love #rhythm #sonnet #death

to hear with eyes belongs to loves fine wit ↗

— William Shakespeare

#love

Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#sonnet #love