My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.