Or I shall live your epitaph to make, <br /> Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; <br /> From hence your memory death cannot take, <br /> Although in me each part will be forgotten. <br /> Your name from hence immortal life shall have, <br /> Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: <br /> The earth can yield me but a common grave, <br /> When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. <br /> Your monument shall be my gentle verse, <br /> Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, <br /> And tongues to be your being shall rehearse <br /> When all the breathers of this world are dead; <br /> You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen-- <br /> Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxxxi-2/
