Like as the waves make towards the pebbled 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.
In plain English
Time moves like waves washing toward shore—relentless, one moment pushing the last forward until it's gone. We're born into light, crawl toward our peak, then watch that peak get attacked by wrinkles and decay. Time gives us youth and beauty, then takes them back.
Time pierces through the shine of being young, carves lines into faces, devours everything rare and perfect in nature. Nothing escapes its blade. But here's the thing: my poems about you will outlast all that cruelty. Your worth will still stand when time itself is done.
The sonnet answers time's damage with the permanence of verse—a claim the speaker makes quietly but firmly, in the final couplet.
