Benutzer:Heptaparaparshinokh
Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies: Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
William Shakespeare, Sonette XVII
And though I have the Gift of Prophecy
And understand all Mysteries and all Knowledge
And Though I have all Faith, so that I could remove Mountains
And Have not Charitiy, I Am Nothing.
from Corinthian 13
