All The World's A Stage

Poem By William Shakespeare

What is the word beyond the castle wall, does the morning find her still?
Across the sea from Ravenshead the news on the field pierced my shield.
I beseech you lower that massive gate, no red scourge will conquer my will.
Let a husband embrace his feverish bride, lest my own heated anger build.

For both countrymen or alien spear are the same if they hinder my way.
Rivers of blood will soak my home soil as my loyal men topple this wall.
You fear the red death must be cornered and hidden in dungeons away
But should you foolishly challenge me, understand your people must fall.

If she should ease into that pitiless sea without her hand on my heart.
No amount of prayer or battlement will ever quench this sorrow and wrath.
She, my young love from the first time we met, one true soul from the start.
Take pity on this grief stricken shadow, make haste, let me in at last!

Oh but moments are a wicked eternity when the pendulums arc swings wide.
Somewhere down torch lit corridors swallowed in the silence of her room.
Deep in the bowels of this damp stony fortress the flame of his life's light died.
She is buried on a hill in the meadow in the shadow of the Ravenshead tomb.

Comments about All The World's A Stage

Across the sea from Ravenshead the news on the field pierced my shield. This spoke about young love very wisely in this well versed poem. Nice sharing...10


4,0 out of 5
408 total ratings

Other poems of SHAKESPEARE

Edgar Allan Poe

They all wash over me with pitying eyes, they think that I don't see.
Yet they are only crude jagged faces on the canvas of my dreams.
Empty their wishes float, as they seem to pray my safe return.
How can they know the fever that within this prison burns.

Patchwork

Sometimes I feel at home in darkness
Painted black to quote the Stones
Snarling cynic dismissive and strong
Scoffing at the foolish dreamers

Safe Travels

Bull elephant is what they call you
Big name, big beast
They do not do you justice
What do you call yourself?

To The Woman

Tis with a grace that she carries her burden
Never asking others to lighten her load
What monumental responsibilities she has
A philosophical shepherd tending her flock

A Tin Cup Life

He had traded in convenience
For a dented tin coffee cup
Sturdy and big enough for stew
River washed or snow scrubbed

Toast Sweet Solitude

Two days of rain could not dampen the spirit
Alone in a cabin as the pelting continued
With plenty of firewood from sunnier days
Split and set aside for this rainy day