Shakespeare's Sonnets Translation Sonnet 107
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a cónfined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own preságe; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
Neither my fears nor the prophetic soul
Of the whole world, imagining the future,
Can control the lease of my true love,
Which is thought to be subject to a certain destruction.
The mortal moon has experienced her own eclipse,
And the sad prophets now refute their own predictions;
Uncertainties now appear to be certain,
And peace brings eternal olive branches.
Now with the healing drops of this time
My lover looks young, and even death submits to me,
Since despite death I will live in this poor poetry,
While he rules over boring and mute tribes.
And you in this poem will find your memorial,
When kings's crests and brass tombs are worn away.