The Bard - Poem by sylvia spencer
I once fell in love with a playwrite and poet but because
I was a child I could not show it. This love of mine that was
so dear, who went by the name of William Shakespeare.
He lived in a half timbered house in Stratford-Upon-Avon.
A beautiful place, a countryside haven. His beautiful words
were hard to understand but I thought they were precious and
somewhat grand. My love for this man just grew and grew and
because of this I had friends that were few; until one day I was
given a prize and this opened up my mothers eyes. I said I had
chosen the book myself because it contained so much wealth.
A wealth of knowledge about Shakespeare's life and Anne
Hathaway his lovely wife. My Mother said that the book needed
so much understanding, as she placed it in the bookcase on the
upstairs landing. As for me I loved that book and when I get time
I still take a look.
The Bard of Avon as you were known, and my love for you has
grown and grown. I picture you above looking down on the land
writing your sonnets, with the quill pen in your hand.
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The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You