Shakespeare

The pen may cease its morning rise
When men have ended untold days,
Till then in sleep their hallowed cries
Do split the night within their plays.

O shake the wind that doth shake you,
Let it not your mind overcome!
O Shakespeare, now with gentle brew
We toast to your life now far done!

But still in hearts and minds now spent
From long overdue nights un-slept
Lies many a man, pilgrim tent,
Wherefore they go their hearts to rent!

O greatest of greats, thou pilgrim
Who did in our hearts write beauties,
O  still we may our part thus win,
In fair Maiden hands set rubies.

The ink now dry from tear stains damp
And uncontrollable weakness,
Now turns to be strength, the great ramp
For the towers wrapped in bleakness.

O strangest of words let with ease
Into the raging stream of men,
O mystery that yet unseen
May still overcome dreaded fen!

Words with bright shining gleam and sheen
A thousand times thirty he knew,
And all that is, has ever has been
He took as his study to do.

O torch of light within the bleak
And troubled world of England's flame,
O mask of love and grain of wheat,
He Who wrote by dim lit wicks wane.

What now becomes four hundred years
After glorious deed's done then,
We shadows still attempt to fill
The many fair works of your pen.

O listener of winds and songs
Who made a business of stories,
O bringer of names, gentle frames,
Great characters with great worries.

Needless are not the deeds of those
Whom you did write upon the white.
For whiter pages do still row
In the style of the poets blight.

O master of verse, gently speak
Wherever gone, where now you roam!
O man in league with the great weak
That find history their own home!

Yet in the silence now I hold
And offer up a verse or two.
Dear fellow poet, who art bold,
Inspire me now, through and through!

O laughter most in tragedy,
A double standard you did take.
O laughter found in comedy,
On a circle stage without rake!

Where have gone, who did you redeem?
I haven't a single old clue!
But if you're gone forever, fiend
Save a place for us poets true!

O raging seas and tides of ink
Carry fast this dear and good chap,
O English channel do not sink
The man that sails homeward to nap!

For as old Lewis said of old,
When his veins did still become him,
Perchance the heaven we've been told
Shall remind us of good London!

O apprentice of the masters
That long were in their grey graves set,
O master who sits in rafters
While we do labor still and fret!

Now climb the heights with me dear friends
When you're good and ready to come.
For when you do as God intends
You'll find poetry and then some!

O Shake the winds that shake your sail,
And beat them out as drum's deep beat.
O write the words within your pail
Contribute to the greatest feat!

                                   Shakespeare, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012