Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A paraphrase of Shakespeare's second sonnet, in which each line is an anagram of the titular phrase.


Sonnet Number Two by William Shakespeare

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

A Time's bane rumples lines on thy weak brow

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

When master plowmen break in Beauty's soil;

Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,

Thy prime new blouse's bleak as raiment now -

Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:

Banal, unkempt; worn, seam-wise, by sheer toil.

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,

"Is Beauty's rank the same now?", men will probe,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;

"Why are keen blasts but memories, now plain?"

To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,

Some answers will but make thy pain enrobe

Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

The numb eye - soon, its amber spark will wane...

How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,

Muse on what tokens praise by men will bear

If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine

When smirk will note: "My babe, so neat as pure!

Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'

"Small kin's been worth my pious, beaten wear",

Proving his beauty by succession thine!

Yet thine own babe a mom's spark will ensure:

This were to be new made when thou art old,

Near his new smiles, low ebb to peak may turn,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Whilst passion may let one weak ember burn.

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Shakespeare's 76th sonnet anagrammed into a paraphrase (up to a point), its theme being the Baconian controversy. In the argument over the authorship of Shakespeare's works, one of the 'real' authors that was suggested was Sir Francis Bacon, an English philosopher and essayist. The anagram is not only written from Bacon's point of view, but contains 2 further constraints: a simple acrostic spelling out SIR FRANCIS BACON, and a relevant quote by Bacon himself, revealed when reading down every 4th word of the anagram's lines: "Nothing doth more hurt in a state than that cunning men pass for wise."

Shakespeare's Seventy-Sixth Sonnet

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O! Know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

Sham Poem
I find there's nothing novel in my ode:
Rhymes dwindle, pen doth wander without will;
For weeks and more the Muses that once flowed
Regress tremendously and hurt my skill.
Anxiety is woven in my snag:
Now too strong a lie, it's increasingly
Close to a state where new words always lag;
I'd rather quit than type few without glee!
Still, I'd observe - that ploy, well laid and knit,
Boasts alias so cunning and high-browed;
As patrons are men ever void of wit,
Charade may yet pass masked, yet praise-endowed...
One tension yields, for, with that yarn involved,
No one's so wise to have my riddle solved!

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A poem by Christina Rossetti.

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

Please overlook my ancient history;
You ought not fumble for a higher truth,
The rare tale from my proud and nimble youth -
Not one can ban an autumn from this tree.
Care not for where and how they bury me -
The greatest funeral won't raise the dead;
Let marshland be my final resting bed,
And random torrent be my eulogy.
Don't grant a dream of me to fog your mind;
Your honors will show up one day too late...
The Earth, you see, will measure my life's weight
By cubs I grew and by the art I made;
And if I leave not one of those behind
Then truly, my cursed name deserves to fade.

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On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me:
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtledoves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

(Signed reply from The Internal Revenue Service)

Ms. Smuggler,

We dismiss this staggering report - it can't explain the whopping sum of endangered species and gang of drunk, illegal aliens.

We've involved the Immigration Department and many Federal wildlife marshals - investigation's underway.
Game over, bitch!

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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