Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am
rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot
take,
Although in me each part will be
forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall
have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world
must die:
The earth can yield me but a common
grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall
lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall
o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall
rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are
dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath
my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in
the mouths of men.
View all
Shakespeare's Sonnets:
