Let me not to the marriage of true minds |
Admit impediments. Love is not love |
Which alters when it alteration finds, |
Or bends with the remover to remove: |
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark |
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; |
It is the star to every wandering bark, |
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. |
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks |
Within his bending sickle's compass come: |
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, |
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. |
If this be error and upon me proved, |
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
I remember well the hour that my mother died. She was sixty years old, in a hospice, and for some time had been daily losing her fight against cancer. I arrived at the hospice perhaps 10 minutes after she died, and embraced my father. He looked at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, 'I loved that girl.' The words struck me: sixty years old, and still a girl: indeed love 'alters not... even to the edge of doom'.
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