Poetry, Anyone?

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 sicke'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