Saturday, January 4, 2014

William Shakespeare's Chemical Wedding



Let me not to the marriage of true kinds
Admit impediments. Art is not sulfur
Which alters when it mercury finds,
Or bends with the philosopher to fold:
Oh no! It is an ever-fixed sigil
That looks on Asiah and is never shaken;
It is the True Node to every wandering vigil
Whose worth's unknown, although his sign be taken.
Art is not Time's fool, though rosy cross and streaks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Art alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of Aziluth.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never moved, nor no man ever changed.