Sere Upon The Stem After William Shakespeare Sonnet Lxxi Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

If, reader, brave, your stave taps this grave verse
unable to wave back Death's sable veil,
my phantom name don't pantomime, rehearse,
resign to Time that which beneath blade flail
harvest tithed, forgathered lies. Few wail
when petals fall, few care a tinkers curse
for memories that mattered once. Loves fail
when Winter's chill wind will to dust disperse
sad withered sepals sere upon time's stem.
Where shared chords strung wrung hands and shadowed hearse
mock best laid stratagem of mice and men.
none challenge Time beyond agenda terse.
Stark, poet sought post-scriptum post mortem
to hitch starlight which might pitch night condemn.

If, reader, grave, you stumble on this verse
unable to wave back Death's sable veil,
my phantom name don't pantomime, rehearse,
resign to Time that which beneath sharp flail
is harvested, forgathered. What avail?
When petals fall few care a tinkers curse
for memories that mattered, all must fail,
when Winter's chill wind will to dust disperse
the withered sepals sere upon the stem.
Yet should it strike like chord, shared tune disburse,
through heart ring true, eschewing stratagem,
we'd challenge Time, to hearts' content converse.
Stark poet sought beyond dark post mortem
to hitch star which Death lightly would condemn.

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.