With the return of spring, love is finally in the air, so I thought it fitting to choose a love poem for the poem of the week. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,īut bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Within his bending sickle’s compass come Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. That looks on tempests and is never shaken
