Poetry Month

Section XVII is called "The Door of Death."

Sonnet LXVI
by William Shakespeare

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
  Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

I don't recall ever reading this one, but I think I've found a new favorite.