Shakespeare's Quill

A feather of this rarity, sent from heaven's trees. Literature of such clarity, flows from gentle breeze. The pied raven sleeps, no longer on this earth. Volumes filled that keeps, the mystery of it's mirth. Romeo spoke of it true, to love that was forbidden. And if Othello only knew, of how the cloth was hidden. Verbiage from that quill, a poet's heart did shine. We savour the words still, like our sweetly aged wine. Castles have been painted, with ink like black death. Pages that were tainted, from King Henry to Macbeth. Now the poet has gone, to another world unknown. The blank pages have drawn, his memories laid in stone.