In Praise of the Bard

a sonnet

Will, oh Will — thy plays are terrific
Somewhat overworked at times, but good,
With a tendency to be prolific,
Though not easy to be understood.

Metric feet trip lightly without strain
In a measurement of iambs five,
Stories tumble from thy high-browed brain
Tales that cent’ries on are still alive:

Sun of York, a shrew, a tortured Dane,
Bitter Jew — revenge, a pound of flesh
A Moor, old king, a dark ambitious Thane,
Back-stabbers, star-cross’d lovers, death enmesh’d.

Students grumble, fidget, act like jerks,
But grown, may see the jewels in thy works.