Sonnet Quotes

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach”
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.”
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese

“I don’t think that I’ve been in love as such
Although I liked a few folk pretty well
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch
for brave men died and empires rose and fell
For love, girls follow boys to foreign lands
and men have followed women into hell
In plays and poems someone understands
there’s something makes us more than blood and bone
and more than biological demands
For me love’s like the wind, unseen, unknown
I see the trees are bending where it’s been
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown
I really don’t know what "I love you" means
I think it means "don’t leave me here alone”
― Neil Gaiman, Adventures in the Dream Trade

“Just let me wait a little while longer,
Under your window in the quite snow.
Let me stand here and shiver, I’ll be stronger
If I can see your light before I go.
All through the weeks I’ve tried to keep my balance.
Leaves fell, then rain, then shadows, I fell too.
Easy restraint is not among my talents,
Fall turned to Winter and I came to you.
Kissed by the snow I contemplate your face.
Oh, do not hide it in your pillow yet!
Warm rooms would never lure me from this place,
If only I could see your silhouette.
Turn on your light, my sun, my summer love.
Zero degrees down here, July above.”
― Polly Shulman, Enthusiasm

“No longer mourn for me when I am dead
than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
give warning to the world that I am fled
from this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
nay, if you read this line, remember not
the hand that writ it, for I love you so,
that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
if thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if, I say, you look upon this verse
when I perhaps compounded am with clay,
do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
but let your love even with my life decay;
lest the wise world should look into your moan,
and mock you with me after I am gone.
”
― Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Sonnets

“When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.”
― William Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Sonnets

“I am sonnets full of stardust within the meter of my skin.”
― Patricia Robin Woodruff

“Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.


Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed and mariage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, we are met,
And cloisterd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.


Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.”
― John Donne

“Sonnet of Abortion

My body, my decision,
Whether I choose birth or abortion.
Till a state can care for the newborn,
No bill is qualified to offer resolution.
Instead of controlling my birth canal,
Work on carving a paradigm of equality.
Build a world where a newborn is a gift,
Not a burden on life, dream or economy.
Abolish all disparities born of greed,
Strip the wealthy of their ill-gotten riches.
Use all resources for collective welfare,
So that status ends up on history pages.
Worse than aborting is birthing in instability.
I'll give birth when I need not rely on pity.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Hometown Human: To Live for Soil and Society

“Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your self ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be,
Shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:
But onely that is permanent and free
From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine and borne of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
All other fayre lyke flowres untymely fade.”
― Edmund Spenser, Amoretti And Epithalamion

“A sonnet might look dinky, but it was somehow big enough to accommodate love, war, death, and O.J. Simpson. You could fit the whole world in there if you shoved hard enough.”
― Anne Fadiman, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader

“Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.”
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: plus Sonnets from the Porte-Cochere by S. H. Bass

“Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.”
― William Shakespeare

“My fairest Daphne,
Treasure of my eyes,
Pearl of my heart,
Whose beauty is as lovely,
As a blooming laurel tree in spring,
With eyes as green as sparkling emeralds,
And hair as bright as a burning fire,
At first sight, this fair maiden captured my heart,
As she silently sat there,
Reading underneath a laurel tree,
While patiently waiting for her prince to come,
One glimpse at her and I knew,
That I was lost to her forever,
Even in my curious green state,
With nothing else to hold,
But my lily pad floating above the pond,
Alas, I understood,
That she was the one,
The owner of my beating heart,
If only she but knew.”
― Kristina Stangl, The Emerald Prince

“My galley, charged with forgetfulness,
Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass
'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine enemy, alas,
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness;
And every oar a thought in readiness,
As though that death were light in such a case.
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the weared cords great hinderance;
Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance.
The stars be hid that led me to this pain.
Drowned is reason that should me consort,
And I remain despairing of the port.”
― Thomas Wyatt

“Bird of Paradise, feather among leaves,
To the earthy soil I am bound and tied.
Anchored by claws of roots and weighty sheaves,
My spirit flies among the birds that glide.
My sprawled pinions verdant, tail feathers pied,
A crest of orange crowned is my disguise.
As winds breathe hope and new life, then subside,
Seeds are sown and grown right before my eyes.
My vision is centered, strong are my arms,
I feed the hungry and withstand their sting,
I greet the sunrise, and bathe in rainstorms.
Wildflowers fret and speak of blight all spring,
But Paradise shuns foreboding such plight.
Proud is my nature, I stand strongly bright.”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“Als de wind van de geschiedenis opsteekt kan een mens er zijn pet naar draaien in de hoop gespaard te blijven of wie weet een slaatje te slaan uit het toeval. Hij kan tegen de storm in proberen te lopen of zich een schuilplaats zoeken. Wie uiteindelijk overeind blijft en wie onder de wielen van de Moloch verpletterd wordt weet niemand, zelfs de goede God niet. We zijn muizen die in het looprad van het noodlot trappelen en we kunnen het tempo aan of niet. Geen sonnet heeft ooit de koers van de geschiedenis verlegd. De wereld is de wereld.”
― Erwin Mortier, Godenslaap

“On city harp strings ‘neath cotton ball clouds,
Pigeon to pigeon their stories they sing,
Wafting flocks gather in soft, cooing crowds;
Amid rush traffic, a prelude to spring,
One with their nature, harmony within,
Above street clatter, perched, resting their bones,
Primed for the vernal bounty to begin,
Soothing the clamor with light, dulcet tones;
Whiffs of smog-filled drafts like bellows pulse through,
Unfazed are they by our mad world of haste,
The calm bevy awaits winter’s adieu,
Unconsumed by thoughts of no time to waste,
Nature presides with unshakable pride,
The seasons shall turn with a feather’s glide.”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“Handcrafted Humanity Sonnet 81

If a tradition endorses hate and mistrust,
It’s the tradition that we must reject not people.
If a heritage endorses division and discrimination,
It's the heritage that we must reject not people.
If an ancestor passes on bigotry and barbarism,
It’s the ancestor that we must reject not people.
If a bible teaches phobia and separatism,
It’s the bible that we must reject not people.
If a messiah preaches blindness and conspiracy,
It's the messiah that we must reject not people.
If God commands oppression and occupation,
It’s the God that we must reject not people.
Above all commandment, love is the highest truth.
Anything that divides love is a stoneage residue.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Handcrafted Humanity: 100 Sonnets For A Blunderful World

“My own words assassinated me,
I don't compose sonnets anymore.”
― Afreen Rahat, Behind Her Eyes

“Never believe though in my nature reigned,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.”
― William Shakespeare

“That we may know thy blackness is a spark
Of light inaccessible, and alone
Our darkness which can make us think it dark.”
― Edward Herbert

“I’ve found that the best way to live one’s life
Is above the fog of negative thought,
With gossiping lips outside of earshot,
Keeping harsh criticism far less rife.

I’ve found that the best way to avoid strife
Is by sharing with others who have not,
Seeing the good, speaking kindness a lot,
Burying hatchets as well as sharp knives.

Every compassionate deed we have sown
Lifts a heavy burden from a brother.
Each positive thought and comment we own
Extends joy and love to one another.
Life was not meant to be traveled alone.
It is where we learn we need each other.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, A Heart Made of Tissue Paper

“Anne Hathaway's Garden by Stewart Stafford

In Stratford, lies a garden's tended hair,
Two lovebirds, Avon swans, nested there.
Anne kept counsel as Shakespeare's bride,
United home and clan over distance wide.

Pestilence, flood and war roared with fright,
This English idyll thrived in the pastoral light,
Rose, rosemary pruned with nurturing care,
Floral Tudor fireworks, exploding fragrant air.

The Bard, swansong past, returned to her,
Wooed Anne with words, the heartbeat spur,
To walk and reminisce among the green,
Sparked a fire that life apart rendered lean.

Anne Hathaway's garden outlived them all,
Paralleled words, evergreen, as in virgin scrawl.

© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Lemon quince gently adrift at sunrise,
Sweet harbinger, warmth will grace the near days.
Playful breezes spin to catch fragrant sighs,
From blooming buds rustling, soft floral sways,
Nestled betwixt mighty branched leaves of green,
Starry white petals uncoil, one by one;
Stretching to drench in rays of late spring’s scene,
Fanned floral saucers revive, ‘neath the sun.
A strong gust shivers the splendid display,
Dusting blissful, dulcet notes through the air;
Wayward leaves wander, and scatter astray,
Like weightless flutter of butterfly flair.
Tumbling relics of a burgeoned giant,
Magnolia renewed, abloom, defiant.”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“What is Poetry
(My Sonnet, My Rules)

Any gargoyle can google
the definition of a sonnet,
Any robot can write and
rhyme 14 lines of a sonnet.

Number of lines don't make sonnet,
Impeccable rhyme don't make poetry.
Critics, police and gatekeepers are
usually least capable of originality.

It's okay if it's few lines extra,
It's okay if it's couple lines less.
It's okay if it doesn't rhyme at all,
It's the soul that matters, not vessels.

You're welcome to your dead laws of poetry,
while I bring poetry to life, shaping society.”
― Abhijit Naskar, World War Human: 100 New Earthling Sonnets

“My sonnet, my rules.”
― Abhijit Naskar, World War Human: 100 New Earthling Sonnets

“Anne's Will by Stewart Stafford

Young Shakespeare set off to London town,
To quill and ink his masterpiece plays,
Still, Anne Hathaway grew anxious;
Marriage and family rent twain ways.

He vowed to send back funds to them,
With a fledgling kiss, Will was gone,
Tearful goodbyes of wife and daughters,
Stratford shrank, cartwheels spun.

The distance honeyed homesickness,
The farther from hearth Will roamed,
The capital's theatres awaited him;
Words etched in stone in folio tome.

The absentee bard kept his word true;
Admirably providing for kin well,
Through a bitter, lonely aftertaste,
With only one truism to tell:

"For, aye, where'er there was a Will,
Truly, good Anne always hath a way."

© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning, How Do I Love Thee and Other Poems: Includes MLA Style Citations for Scholarly Secondary Sources, Peer-Reviewed Journal Articles and Critical Academic Research Essays

“The Sacking of Grief by Stewart Stafford

Thou speaketh of grief as a funeral cowl lashed,
When 'tis a thorny, haunting cuckoo's nest smashed,
I wouldst cast it off, fain if choice be mine,
And not necessity's wickedness stretched supine.

Peace's changeling to restless beds doth creep,
In conjoined prayer to restoreth salvation sleep.
To crawleth awake in dawn's incessant weight,
Can I tame this sleepless lion and walk it straight?

I confesseth sins, but the blemish remains,
Call it regret that stalks these guiltless brains,
Would a surgeon's blade cut me free of it?
And I in luscious orchards, the solaced fruits bit.

O, in slumbering dusk the leonine roar doth cease,
And the pathway home heralds sweet release.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford