Sonnet 116

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 never shaken;  

It is the star to every wandering bark,  

 Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  

Love'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. 

If Shakespeare was right, and this is love, does it exist? Or is it yet another 

ideal that literature has created for us, and that we will never find?