Sonnet 81

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 entombèd 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.

Whether I live to write your epitaph,

Or you survive while I am in the earth,

From here on we at death shall laugh,

And you will live though I’m of passing worth.

You’re going to be immortal, here on,

Though no one will know me after I’m gone.

I’ll just leave a common grave, a matter of stone.

You are the soul. You shine alone.

You’ll be buried in my song

Which ears not even born will hear.

You’ll be playing all night long

When not a soul we know is here.

They’ll be singing you, so far from death:

You’ll be there in their breath.