Dead poets moulder in their grave,
their souls set sail, the world to save.
What have they to say before they die,
what words to speak to you and I?
In this boat called life we battle on,
for while, and then we’re gone.
Leaving behind a story told
of youth, of age, of growing old.
Forever after shed a tear,
we read them, we who are here.
Tomorrow beckons, finest wine,
poets are the lords of time.
Their song, their story, poetry
speaks across time to you and me.
Hear, oh hear the poet sing
of life, of love, of everything.