This man, he wrote which we by rote
Recite in hopes to match his pen.
Emboldened by his poetry,
We play the cast of characters
Defining our humanity.
This man, he did invent the man
Upon a Globe – as Nature, Earth –
In verses, with researches deep
Into the one or two accounts
Historians had penciled down.
He breathed into the paper hearts
The spirit and the sentiment
Which, to the glass of seeing eyes,
Supplied the misty warmth on which
The fingers of his fantasy
Described the circularity
Of things that are, but will not be.
This man, he sowed the seeds of time,
Against the knowledge and the art
To know which grain will grow, which not,
And reaped the world in afterlife.
His good was not interred with bones.
Not once intrepid lines of his
Did ask to be or not to be.
They are, they are, they are, they are
So good that thinking makes it so
Today and every next today.