Death Be Not Proud

Foe no paw tick
    yell la rhyme anon,
nor reason the spirit
     of English poet
     with sir name Donne
silently reverberated,
     thru age gent
     o' time gone

by, and space from one o'
     many departed esteemed
     fellows named John,
this particular gifted poet bro'
enshrined within pantheon dough
main of renown
     wordsmiths, whar low
did volumes of cherished mo'

verses didst flow
till death, whence glow
extinguished last
     breath aye...Kings
     unsullied reverence
     eminent soul dost overshadow
history didst stow
treasure trove belle lettres - whoa

to majestic scribe,
     whose legend preserved
     against dry den sorrow
(born: January, 24th 1572
died: March 31st 1631 -
     London, England) -
     after demise, whence,
     grim reaper stole storied

     versatile writer yet barely lix,
     spittle orbitz, his
     corporeal body didst go,
boot mourn not saith
     long deceased flair rushed
     with quill British bard,
     forsooth heave hoe
doth his spirit gently

     haunt every know
wing troubadour piercing
released from well taut bow,
a well targeted primed,
     and boned arrow
loosed thru ethereal

     doggone catacombs as divine
     heavenly lambent crow
wing discernible as tow
whirring master as mentor hiho
channeling thru intervening
     three plus centuries.