In sonnets penned by Shakespeare’s hand,
The thoughts of death so subtly stand,
With words that whisper life’s brief stay,
And shadows cast on fleeting day.

The reaper’s touch, a gentle breeze,
That brings all souls to their knees,
Yet in his lines, a light doth gleam,
A hope that wakes from mortal dream.

Time’s cruel march, it cannot bind,
The timeless echoes of the mind,
For though we fade and turn to dust,
In verse, our spirits find their trust.

So read these lines with heart and grace,
And find in death a tender place,
Where life and love forever blend,
In Shakespeare’s words that never end.