Soft Chord After William Shakespeare Sonnet Lxxi Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

If you, perchance, should glance upon this verse
discarding chance to dance behind dark veil,
force no false thought, distraught remorse rehearse,
advance to Time that which beneath his flail
best soonest were in-gathered. What avail?
When flowers fade, few fill a pauper's purse
for souvenirs that shatter once we fail.
White Winter's chill will into dust disperse
shrunk, shrivelled sepals sere upon stormed stem.
Yet should soft chord be struck to intersperse
regrets with yearning, far from stratagem,
then could two spirits share, commune, converse.
Rhymed toxin tocsin sings no angel's wings,
no gilded lily brings to stem Time's stings.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking of me then should make you woe.
O! if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.