Shakespearean Variation: Sonnet 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come
will have recognition of high deserts?
Unless you scribe the letters on a tomb
more fair than Taj Mahal in all its parts
so that a thousand years before all eyes
the lines should shine with reflected graces,
to claim eternal fame would be but lies;
few words last before angelic faces.
So all my verse shall move from youth to age,
and one day cease to live on human tongue;
but foolish it would be therefore to rage
when for a little while it is a song.
-- Though all be eaten by that monster, time,
yet meanwhile it is good to have a rhyme.
