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 wand'ring 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 prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

Today I read of a young woman who took her own life a few days before her 16th birthday. She would have been 19 in January. One of her friends posted this sonnet by the Bard, to speak of his hurt at her absence.