Shakespeare and Poe share the same family tree

Genetically prone to dramatical spree

Such as murders and the quoting of ravens and such,

Perhaps just a little too much.

 

Stevenson’s prattle of pirates and shore

While Wordsworth rambles of flowers galore

And Frost with his goings, his stopping, his walls,

Dickinson’s bees, drunken hauls.

 

Rhythm and rhyme, insidiously vile,

Seeps into our soul, with the gentlest guile

And sticks in the cracks between tear and smile.

Forever. Or just for a while.