Sonnet 115

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

Yet then my judgment knew no reason why

My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.

But reckoning time, whose million’d accidents

Creep in ’twixt vows and change decrees of kings,

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,

Divert strong minds to th’ course of alt’ring things,

Alas, why, fearing of time’s tyranny,

Might I not then say, ‘Now I love you best,’

When I was certain o’er incertainty,

Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?

Love is a babe, then might I not say so,

To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

The poems up to now have lied,

Even those that said I could not love you more,

Even though at that time my spirit tried

To say what seemed maximally clear.

Thinking about time, whose million twists and turns

Come between promises, change the minds of sovereigns,

Contravene the best intentions,

And quiet the loudest convictions—

How could I safely say

My love was at its most,

As though I could make time be

My guest instead of my host?

What I should have said is love’s an infant,

Growing always in every instant.