Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Notes
Where Li-Young Lee showed us how a family digests grief around a table of steamed fish, William Shakespeare turns our attention to the ultimate cosmic harvester, where the peak of summer beauty is constantly shadowed by the creeping, inevitable edge of time's scythe. This Sonnet stages a ruthless confrontation with temporal finitude, operating through the lens of tragic transience where the peak of natural surplus carries its own internal negation, proving that every moment of mortal perfection is structured around its impending collapse. It grounds August’s theme of Feast in the ultimate existential paradox, reminding us that to truly taste the height of summer's harvest is to devour a moment that time is already taking back. #poetry #feast #shakespeare #august #sonnet