Sonnet XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse Making a couplement of proud compare, With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems, With April’s first-born flowers, and all…

Reading Rut

So it’s that time of year when I no longer want to read new books, I want to revel in the comfort that I found in titles I love. I used to be sad when this feeling rolled around but now I relish my re-reading of Macbeth, 100 Years of Solitude and everything that Junot…