Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit singularities; continuity is not continuity
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Nor does it bend with the remover who removes.
O no, it is an ever-smooth function
Which looks on tempest, and is never shaken.
It is the star to every indefinite integral
Whose area's unknown, although its height be taken.
Continuity is not Time's fool; though minima and peaks
Traverse within the bending Euclidean vicinity.
Continuity alters not to its brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of infinity
If this be wrong, and upon me proved,
Then I never derived, nor no curve ever smoothed.
Note
The inspiration for this followed immediately after reading Sonnet 116 – for what is enduring love, but continuity for all time? So far this draft is just a series of cheap transpositions but I hope to improve on it further some other day.