what is love (an ode to Shakespeare)

Where once did bloom the rose of sweetest June,
Now silence reigns, no bird nor cricket's tune.
The light of love, once bright as morning's cast,
Now shadows long in scrolls of futures past.

Thy face, my ghost upon the moor's expanse,
A cherished specter caught in time's slow dance.
How love, once mighty, fell to ruin's sun,
As waxen wings did melt, and I undone.

The willow's whispers carried on the breeze,
Speak sins of love, our hearts they did not ease.
For passion's chains, unseen, were forged not free,
And bound us fast to what could never be.

"Sweet sorrow," quoth the bard, in parting's breath,
Yet found we only bitterness in death.
Thy absence, like a blade, hath cleft so deep,
And left me naught but tears and soul to keep.

A stage of sorrows where I stand alone,
With heart's lament as my eternal tone.
The final act, with mournful script, is played,
A player in the masque of love betrayed.

To be or not, with thee, my heart's debate,
For love's bright day hath turned to endless night.
In sonnets penned to mourn our star-crossed fate,
We find that love is but a fleeting sight.

Let words now dance, like quill on parchment old,
A tale of memories, of chances bold.
For love is but a dream we dare to chase,
A shadow fleeting, lost in time's embrace.

In twilight's hush, for thee, my heart doth pine,
'Neath yonder tree where once our love did shine.
The echoes of our joy, now spirits faint,
That haunt the shores of my heart's sad restraint.

Thy image, sketched 'mongst stars in heaven's weave,
A bitter token of the love we grieve.
As lunar phases shift from full to wane,
Our fervent tide receded into pain.

Cupid's shaft, with honeyed poison tipped,
Struck deep our hearts, then from our grasp it slipped.
A love so rare, it seemed not of this sphere,
Now leaves me in the void, alone, austere.

The verses we composed in ardor's flame,
Now sodden leaves, with naught but grief to claim.
Each syllable, a relic of our sighs,
A chronicle of love that never dies.

For what is love? A jester's cunning play?
A moment's rapture in the endless fray.
Yet through its loss, the stark truth we discern,
The brightest flames are those that fastest burn.

So let this verse, with Puck's own trickery,
Recount the stage where hearts once moved with glee.
Though love has fled, and dreams have all withdrawn,
Its echo lingers on, forever drawn.