Sorry this is late today, but not too sorry, because you’re probably not reading these the days I post them anyway, if my stats are to be believed. I could’ve sworn I wrote today’s post on Sunday and scheduled it, but alas, my brain lied to me again. Wily brain.
Did you know this year marks 449 years since Shakespeare (we think) was born? Some people object to calling it Shakespeare’s birthday week, since he died. But I say: Fools. The Bard is Immortal. We’ll have to do something special next year. All kinds of madness is happening at the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust (I’ve been there! Eeee! I bought scarves in a shop across the road for my relatives– then realized said relatives live in Orange County, California, and have no need of scarves. So I gave them to other, more appreciate, relatives instead.). Anyway, check out their website, or like them on facebook, or check out this blog/vlog contest-type thing, or celebrate in your own quiet way. For now, how about a sonnet before bed?
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, or dearths, or seasons’ quality.
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou would’st convert.
Or else of thee this I prognosticate–
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.