On William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
My Muse now whispers of brave ones long dead,
Knowing a source past darlings of the age;
He won’t be limited to what is read,
Nor to new fashion: young things are rarely sage.
Nor does He need what poetry can say
To give the Light and Life that He will give,
Since Lincoln, grown and gone, still breathes today
And without Whitman would as richly live.
A Christian poet, taken with his pen,
Once wrote that only it could life sustain,
But Essex, Pembroke and much lesser men
Wink at him now, and laugh at their remains.
They outgrow meaning, when pen and ink do part –
To think alone is needed where thou art.