The speaker brushes aside his own fears and the world’s prophetic anxieties. Neither, he insists, can shorten the lease of his true love, once thought doomed. The mortal moon has endured its eclipse, and gloomy forecasters now laugh at their mistaken predictions. What seemed uncertain now feels assured, and peace extends an olive branch that promises endless calm. In this balmy, renewed time, his love looks fresh, and even Death yields to him—because, despite Death’s power, the speaker will live on in this humble poem, while Death can only gloat over mute, forgotten tribes. He closes by telling the beloved: you will find your true monument here, surviving long after tyrants’ ostentatious crests and brass tombs have crumbled. The mood moves from threatened to triumphantly serene, as poetry claims a victory over time.
Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul — Summary
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.