Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is not shaken:
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Loves’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom,
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Today is our twelfth wedding anniversary! We call it the birthday of our family—certainly the best birthday of my life. Truly have we looked upon some tempests and not been shaken, and for that I credit my good sense in marrying a man with an unquenchable sense of humor. Also he gives excellent footrubs.
Around These Parts
It’s Lent, and We’re No Longer Green
I Bet Mama Whales Never Feel Crowded at Night
Peace Comes Dropping Slow
Party of Five