What's in the brain that ink may character <br />Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? <br />What's new to speak, what now to register, <br />That may express my love, or thy dear merit? <br />Nothing, sweet boy, but yet, like prayers divine, <br />I must each day say o'er the very same, <br />Counting no old thing old—thou mine, I thine— <br />Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. <br />So that eternal love in love's fresh case <br />Weighs not the dust and injury of age, <br />Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, <br />But makes antiquity for aye his page, <br /> Finding the first conceit of love there bred <br /> Where time and outward form would show it dead.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-108-what-s-in-the-brain-that-ink-may-char/
