To W.S.

Four centuries have passed, five decades flew
And every year a brave new fashion flies
And every day a writer tries anew
To kindle light in cold, word-jaded eyes.

But no mere centuries can kill your grace
Or chill your characters, vibrant and warm
You lived enamoured of your muse's face
And faithful to your sonnet's lovely form.

You danced with love on light iambic feet
You fought in verses bright as ringing swords
Tragic your crown, yet crowned with laughter, sweet
Sovereign of every realm that verse affords.

And when the earth that swallowed you has swallowed me
Will -- still beloved of your poor subjects be.