Sonnet form sets a great challenge for the poet. Within the limits of fourteen lines the poet is bound to do all that you can. Shakespeare, in his 154 sonnets, accepted the challenge and gave to the world one of the finest poetry ever written in the world. Both feeling and the form shape a bridge that everybody willingly wants to cross but when you are on the other side you then never know where to go. It is so diverse a land of exploration that you can not but keep on walking never reaching the final destination. Shakespeare's feeling is not a coat button that you can easily fix with the thread. It is elastic and spongy. It can take any shape or form that you want to give. It is by and large about the feeling of love. Its brought up took place in all the seasons. It is even not free from the seasons of mother's womb. It is sometime wrapped in black ink and sometimes protected against the rags of time. It is a Black-Lady-Boy.

A Saint turned martyr while protecting its cause. Even the poet is ready to sacrifice his career if proved false saying anything wrong against it. One sonnet I have chosen for you; it's a sheer beauty queen and my hearts' darling. Enjoy!!!

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more stong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 73, Shakespeare

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