Shall I compare thee to a bristling flame?
Thou art more scorching and more fiery.
Sharp red does burn the simple and plain dame,
And ashy dust hath killed too quietly.
Sometime too hot the eye of Mister shines,
And often are his past confessions stoked;
And every rock from there sometime coal mined,
By chance, or Thornfield’s hidden room, black smoked;
But thy eternal passion shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of thy common Jane
Nor shall heat singe thou darling or pervade
When through the blaze we’ve finished fervent pain
So long as men can breathe, though eyes can’t see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Thou art more scorching and more fiery.
Sharp red does burn the simple and plain dame,
And ashy dust hath killed too quietly.
Sometime too hot the eye of Mister shines,
And often are his past confessions stoked;
And every rock from there sometime coal mined,
By chance, or Thornfield’s hidden room, black smoked;
But thy eternal passion shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of thy common Jane
Nor shall heat singe thou darling or pervade
When through the blaze we’ve finished fervent pain
So long as men can breathe, though eyes can’t see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.