POEMS AND PROSE

SUDDEN LIGHT

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I am staying with the "Pre-Raphaelite Poets", but turning to William Morris, the great furniture and textile designer, who was a friend of Dante Rossetti.

Morris wrote a considerable amount of poetry and for today I have chosen these short verses about greed and selfishness.

MINE AND THINE

Two words about the world we see,
And nought but Mine and Thine they be.
Ah! might we drive them forth and wide
With us should rest and peace abide;
All free, nought owned of goods and gear,
By men and women though it were
Common to all all wheat and wine
Over the seas and up the Rhine.
No manslayer then the wide world o'er
When Mine and Thine are known no more.

Yea, God, well counselled for our health,
Gave all this fleeting earthly wealth
A common heritage to all,
That men might feed them therewithal,
And clothe their limbs and shoe their feet
And live a simple life and sweet.
But now so rageth greediness
That each desireth nothing less
Than all the world, and all his own,
And all for him and him alone.

William Morris

Dante Gabriel Rossetti had a sleeping disorder from an early age.

After his wife Elizabeth died this became worse and he began to treat his sleeplessness with a mixture of chloral hydrate and whiskey, which ultimately led to a mental breakdown.

This poem, was written in 1881, a year before his death.

INSOMNIA

Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit's wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love's new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.

Dante Rossetti

In this poem Dante Gabriel Rossetti describes the last moments of a dying girl's life through the narration of her brother.

MY SISTER'S SLEEP

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
The pain nought else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then raised herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.

Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.

Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.

Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And reddened. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.

'Glory unto the Newly Born!'
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,
Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erheadÑshould they
Have broken her long watched-for rest!

She stopped an instant, calm, and turned;
But suddenly turned back again;
And all her features seemed in pain
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word:
here was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
'God knows I knew that she was dead.'
And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o'clock
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
Christ's blessing on the newly born!'

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Last Friday on http://grumpy.blog.co.uk/ I posted "Catastrophe! Catastrophe!", about the end of the world.

In today's sonnet Dante Rossetti has something to say on the same subject.

"Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear!"

LXXII THE CHOICE, II

Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death?
Is not the day which God's word promiseth
To come man knows not when? In yonder sky
Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: can I
Or thou assure him of his goal? God's breath
Even at this moment haply quickeneth
The air to a flame; till spirits, always nigh

Though screen'd and hid, shall walk the daylight here.
And dost thou prate of all that man shall do?
Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be
Glad in his gladness that comes after thee?
Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? Go to:
Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

"But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only."

Today on my "I Say" blog ( http://me-talking.blog.co.uk/ ) I have posted my poem about Autumn, called "Empty But Full".

Here is Dante Rossetti's take on the same subject, although I feel that my version is a little more optimistic.

AUTUMN SONG

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems--not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

After the death of his wife, Elizabeth Siddal, Rossetti published a collection of sonnets entitled The House of Life, which included this poem describing his loneliness when she was no longer there.

WITHOUT HER

What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! For love’s good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,
Sheds doubled up darkness up the labouring hill.

Dante Rossetti

Note: The sketch of Elizabeth was made by Dante in Hastings in 1854. She didn't enjoy good health and went to the Sussex coast to convalesce. They were married in St Clement's Church, Hastings in 1860 and honeymooned in France.

FOR "A VIRGIN WITH CHILD" BY MICHELANGELO

Mystery: God, man's life, born into man
Of woman. There abideth on her brow
The ended pang of knowledge, the which now
Is calm assured. Since first her task began
She hath known all. What sterner anguish than
She oft hath suffered, who for many a space
Of nights and days hath wept upon her face
While like a heavy flood the darkness ran?
All hath been told her touching her dear son,
And all shall be accomplished. Where he sits
Even now, a babe, he holds the symbol fruit
Perfect and chosen. Until God permits,
His soul's elect still have the absolute
Harsh nether darkness, & make painful moan.

There is a little controversy about this poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti which, in a subtitle, he dedicated to a painting by Michelangelo that he saw on a visit to Bruges.

However, the only work by Michelangelo in the Flemish city is his famous sculpture of The Madonna.

It is thought that Rossetti made a mistake in his recollection of the work that inspired his poem and he should have referred to the painting I have shown above, which is also in Bruges, but was painted by the the German-born painter Hans Memling (Memlinc).

DGR wrote many more poems than I realised and I shall be presenting a selection over the next few weeks.

In this first one the poet recalls his life with his wife Elizabeth Siddal, who died after taking an overdose of laudanum shortly after giving birth to a stillborn child.

Dante became increasingly depressed, and buried the bulk of his unpublished poems in his wife's grave at Highgate Cemetery, although later he had them exhumed.

ALAS, SO LONG!

Ah! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song
And water in singing flow
In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And oh! have they still the art.

Daniel Gabriel Rossetti

Go to my art blog http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/ to see a painting of Elizabeth Siddal, by her husband.

P.S. If you have not already done so, I would be delighted if you would visit my new video/audio blog "I Say" at: http://me-talking.blog.co.uk/

I am continuing the verse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who I mentioned the other day was both an artist and a poet.

Well, to illustrate that, I am posting today his painting "Sea-Spell" together with the poem of the same name that he wrote to accompany it. Or was it the other way around?

A SEA-SPELL

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell,
The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea.
But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,
In answering echoes from what planisphere,
Along the wind, along the estuary?
She sinks into her spell: and when full soon
Her lips move and she soars into her song,
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng
In furrowed self-clouds to the summoning rune,
Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry,
And up her rock, bare breasted, comes to die?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The lady was obviously a 'Siren'.

For more turn to my art blog:

http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/

I am deserting Shakespeare today and turning to Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who is currently featured on my art blog

This poem evokes a summer's afternoon in the grass!

SILENT NOON

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, -
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: -
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Do you remember the popular song "Afternoon Delight"? It was one of the top-selling singles of 1976 - a catchy little number.

"Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
Gonna grab some afternoon delight."
Sky rockets in flight. Afternoon delight.
Afternoon delight."

I think this poem is leading in that direction!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN_BBzYdBvk

We are now truly into Autumn, so I thought I would bring you this sonnet from my blog archive (2006).

SONNET 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare

P.S. If you have not already done so, you may care to go to my audio/video blog, where for the next few days I shall be reading some of my own poetry.

You will find it at: http://ME-TALKING.blog.co.uk/

SONNET 60

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

William Shakespeare

Those of you who have been following this blog for some time may recall that I posted the following Shakespeare sonnet, together with my paraphrase, way back in 2005. It is still there in the archives.

SONNET XXXIV

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

And my version:

WHY DID YOU PROMISE?

Why did you promise once to share it all?
Encourage me to strip my sad soul bare,
Exposed to vagaries of Fate's sure call,
Which only sullied that I treasured fair.
It matters not you sometimes smile your smiles
To falsely claim the future's looking sure,
Your casual kisses nothing more than wiles
That soothe my troubled illness, but not cure.
Regret from you gives short relief in part,
But never can suppress the searing pain,
With little comfort to the aching heart
Of one who waiting grieves and bleeds in vain.
The tears encouraged by your penitence
Are pearls, but shining jewels of little sense.

kendrive ©

P.S. Check out my new blog at: http://ME-TALKING.blog.co.uk

SONNET 24

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

William Shakespeare

SONNET 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

William Shakespeare

I could not find a decent reading of this sonnet on the internet, so I have made my own recording:

Here is a rather naughty little sonnet from Shakespeare about a young man being physically aroused on looking at his beloved.

Rude, but not crude!

SONNET 151

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her love for whose dear love I rise and fall.

William Shakespeare

This is another of Shakespeare's sonnets to a young man, in which he compares human life to the passage of the sun from sunrise to sunset.

The advice again to the youth is that the only way to be remembered and continue his beauty after he has died is to have a child.

SONNET 7

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

William Shakespeare

Listen to Sir John Gielgud reading this sonnet:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5m0xDrp16g

SONNET 98

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

William Shakespeare

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1t3nSxmmKmI

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.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=35748943

This is perhaps on of the most famous of Shakespeare's sonnets.

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

I have not always been a great admirer of Bryan Ferry, but I quite like him singing on this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LziEh3M9hqc

Take, o take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again;
Bring again, bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
Seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Measure for Measure, Act 4, Scene 1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wt1P8grQSk4

(Performed by the San Jose State Concert Choir)

Today's Shakespeare song is from "The Tempest"
(Act 2 Scene 3):

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

It has been set to music by several composers, but I was impressed by this sensitive extended version titled "Waiting".

It was composed by Nitin Sawhney, who relates it to the war in Iraq.

"The Royal Air Force has enjoyed a good day's flying, with excellent weather over Iraq. The army has been continuing to prepare for the coming land battle, and I can report on the arrangements being made for handling prisoners of war..."

WAITING

O mistress mine
Where are you roaming?
O stay and hear
Your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low
Trip no further pretty sweeting
Journeys end in lovers meeting
Every wise man's son doth know
What comes now has gone tomorrow
Present smiles are full of sorrow
But I see you in my mind
From the shadows of my memory
I can feel you walking near me
And I'm waiting for the rain to fall
Dust from your eyes
Angels are falling
From distant fears
Your cold heart's beating
I can see you in the dark
Or the flicker of a daydream
From the edge of silent tears
I remember and I smile
What is love?
Tis not hereafter
Present mirth
Hath present laughter
What's to come is still unsure
In delay there lies no plenty
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty
Youth's a stuff twill not endure.

You can hear Nitin Sawhney performing his song at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVa32kbICiA

And read more about him at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitin_Sawhney

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare

(From 'The Tempest', words spoken by Ariel after he is set free
by Prospero.)

Hear the song at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1m0qCJHoE7Q&feature=related

FULL FATHOM FIVE THY FATHER LIES
(Ariels's song from The Tempest Act 1 Scene II)

FERDINAND.

Where should this music be? i'the air or the earth?
It sounds no more: - and, sure, it waits upon
Some god o'the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father's wrack,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,
Or hath it drawn me rather: - but 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.

ARIEL, sings.

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them, - Ding-dong, bell.

Listen to the song set to music at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqmQUzvubAY

Meav is an Irish singer and musician.

I am leaving Shakespeare's sonnets for the time being, as I am detecting a "sameiness" about them, which may become boring.

There is much more poetry from the Bard and I am turning to some of the songs from plays.

The frst is from "Cymbeline" (Act IV Scene 2).

Guiderius is about to bury Cloten, the Queen's son, who he has murdered.

GUIDERIUS
Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt. To the grave!

ARVIRAGUS
We'll speak it, then.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownéd be thy grave!

William Shakespeare

SONNET 20

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

William Shakespeare

Another Shakespeare sonnet that is fairly easy to understand.

SONNET 48

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.

William Shakespeare

SONNET 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare

Here is a more well-known Shakespeare sonnet. It is one of my favourites and does not, I think, need any explanation.

SONNET 27

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

William Shakespeare

Once again Shakespeare is urging reproduction, saying to a man "When you are gone your beauty will have died too. You should be preparing now to pass it on by having a son."

SONNET 13

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so.

William Shakespeare