while still a teen, the Bard of Avon wed
the mother of his too-untimely child
to whom--in death--he left his less-loved bed
in memory of their days young, and wild
if with maturity they'd grown apart
inevitably, she--at least--got hurt
the poet so attuned to pluck the heart-
strings spent his time in London chasing skirt
for English poets, he still sets the mark
but whom he's wooing isn't ever clear
the sonnets idolize a lady dark
whom--second to his Muse--he holds most dear
they're all long dead, yet still his art remains
evoking timeless joys, and loves, and pains