As on the stage the actor who is imperfect Fails his part only for fear, Or who, because his breast is full of hate Sees his heart break in a tremor, In me, for timidity, is omitted The most solemn rite of passion; And my love I see weakened, Veiled by its own dimension. Let my book then be my eloquence, Mute herald of what my breast says, That begs love and seeks reward More than the tongue that has done it most. Know how to read what silent love writes: To hear with the eyes is love's fate. Of sincere souls the sincere union There is nothing to hinder: love is not love If when it meets obstacles it alters, Or falters at the slightest fear. Love is an eternal landmark, dominant, That bravely faces the storm; It is the star that guides the wandering sail, Whose value is unknown, there at the time. Love does not fear time, though its tool does not spare youth; Love does not change from hour to hour, but asserts itself for eternity. If this be false, and that it is false some one hath proved, I am no poet, and none ever loved. William Shakespeare.