Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul <br />Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, <br />Can yet the lease of my true love control, <br />Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. <br />The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd <br />And the sad augurs mock their own presage; <br />Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd <br />And peace proclaims olives of endless age. <br />Now with the drops of this most balmy time <br />My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, <br />Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, <br />While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes; <br />And thou in this shalt find thy monument, <br />When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-cvii-not-mine-own-fears-nor-the-prophetic/
