The Bard Bequeaths

Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616... The Bard Bequeaths 'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth, This twenty third of April owned thy fate. Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth In midst of spring as summer's passions wait. Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears, The blood of inspiration spake and writ, Like life itself, upon the stage appears Until, at last, a poison potion sipped. Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell There, hidden in the chaos is reward. Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell, Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword. Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind, Conception's want that cannot be confined.