by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

by John Harrington

The moon will now around the world look twice
Two months will hide his face twice over with shame
I seem so much like him, indeed the same
Though, me, his two months' orbit will suffice

For I and he around you turn a gyre
This earth is you, the earth where life abides
Though I may only hope to swell your tides
Yet one eternal dance did I desire

But now you let your grip on me subside
I into starry black will sail away
You will be storm-tossed but you'll be okay
While I, a cold, black world, away will glide

My Love, your seas will all untroubled flow
While I float distant with a waning glow —

I pass my heart into the nebula  
Expectant --- but of what?
The password is too easily guessed.
Afraid, I clutch my hands

Does the traveler have the privilege of entry?
Does the bee have sojourn
In the inn of the flower?

I ask.

by John Harrington

On you I based my very self-esteem
And counted every moment we were two
As if I had monopolies of you
Possessed you as a diamond does its sheen

But then I did the worst a man can do
And cast away a fortune for a dime
Profaned all that before I thought sublime
And ruined any chance I had with you

And now a January moon looks down
And mocks my tears with driving, searing rain
He seems to take a pleasure in my pain
And flashes me a dark insidious frown

There is no greater insult to the soul
No wound is deeper, nor no deep so low

by John Harrington

How different is our end to our design
How grand the tale to what we should confess
How small our gifts to what we would posssess
How all our ends from all our plans decline

It is as if a mischief intervenes
And stops the hands of him who would do good
And alters what he does from what he could
Confusing what he says with what he means

What hope have we to warden our desire?
Only love, more powerful than we know
For lovers do, like gardens, oft expire
Without good soil, and air, and sun to grow.

You are, my Love, my sun, my soil, my air,
But with you could I accomplish what I dare.