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I realized that it was not by wisdom that poets write their poetry, but by a kind of nature or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets; for these also say many beautiful things, but do not know anything of what they say. ~ Socrates
| 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. William Shakespeare |
