Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As “truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert”;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
“Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.”
بوابة أدب إنجليزي
بوابة إنجلترا
بوابة المملكة المتحدة
بوابة شعر
