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This is the poem for the week of August 11.
A new interlinear poem is available each Monday.
Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;
But, either it was different in blood —
O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low.
Or else misgraffed in respect of years —
O spite! too old to be engag'd to young.
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends —
O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say ‘Behold!’
The jaws of darkness do devour it up;
So quick bright things come to confusion.