In poets' corner there are many dead,
Whose words live on inside the hearts of men,
Although upon their bodies worms have fed.
The work they did with pencil quill or pen,
Is still a thing of value in some lives.
Their golden books still rest on modern shelves,
And men quote from their poems to their wives,
While others use their light to feed themselves.
In poets' corner some are laid to rest,
They lie beneath great heavy slabs of stone,
And all of them alive they gave their best,
Though now there's nothing left of skin and bone.
Of all those hands that wrote in English rhyme,
There's none that could slow down the march of time.