Shakespeare is still desperately fighting time,
line by line prolific in capturing one
sweet season – summer – pinning in inky rhyme
bright butterflies to study in the sun.
Like a challenger, he boasts his poems will live
to the world’s end, but libraries have burned.
So many writers’ beauties cease to give
their visions, by men’s same enemies overturned.
As he and all his lovers lie in dust,
and we suspect his words by others penned,
these plays and sonnets like undead fingers thrust
up from the grave, cry, “This is not the end!”
For few bards’ struggles have been so well rewarded –
moments of time that even time has hoarded.