It is aching again; I touch my skin, right above my heart, and the ache widespread all through my body, ho.

Today afternoon I was working on a few sonnet of Shakespeare for to-morrow’s class. I love one of them, published it here, although I know hundred of Shakespeare’s sonnets are available in the world, but I believe, each time we read one of them, it is another birth of Shakespeare’s sonnet in the world.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds,
Admit impediments; love is 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 wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his highth 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 – Sonnet 116


  ¶ 6:32 AM