Death Be Not Proud

Foe no paw tick yell la rhyme anon, nor reason the spirit of English poet with sir name Donne silently reverberated, thru age gent o' time gone by, and space from one o' many departed esteemed fellows named John, this particular gifted poet bro' enshrined within pantheon dough main of renown wordsmiths, whar low did volumes of cherished mo' verses didst flow till death, whence glow extinguished last breath aye...Kings unsullied reverence eminent soul dost overshadow history didst stow treasure trove belle lettres - whoa to majestic scribe, whose legend preserved against dry den sorrow (born: January, 24th 1572 died: March 31st 1631 - London, England) - after demise, whence, grim reaper stole storied versatile writer yet barely lix, spittle orbitz, his corporeal body didst go, boot mourn not saith long deceased flair rushed with quill British bard, forsooth heave hoe doth his spirit gently haunt every know wing troubadour piercing released from well taut bow, a well targeted primed, and boned arrow loosed thru ethereal doggone catacombs as divine heavenly lambent crow wing discernible as tow whirring master as mentor hiho channeling thru intervening three plus centuries.