Poets Corner

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I wrote this after a trip I made to London in 2018 when back in the day there was no pandemic.
In London, I knew I had to visit a certain person that had inspired me to write. His tomb was in Westminster Abbey in the poet's corner. The 14th-century poet Geoffrey Chaucer. The author of The Canterbury Tales and Troilus and Criseyde.
(Not related but I also visited the globe theater, a replica of the original of course).

Oh, royal church, magnificent palace of grand decor,
How long 'twas, since I walked thine halls?
How many miles did I travel from abroad,
To marvel, thine columns of stone marble?
In those arches set, stories in stained glass
& those processional banners which crown, the most
Honorable in Britain.
There, where, many worthy women and men.
Bearers of the sword & the pen.
Noble minds touched by muses hands.
With a gentle touch, fantasy liberated
As turtle doves on spring days.
In poets corner, in a stone sepulcher.
Lies, 'till the end of times.
Dust that once was bones, which once were
The frame for flesh, which made a man,
Which now only lives his most celebrated name.
Humbled and honored by being in the presence
Of whom his works I read & studied.
I placed my right hand on the cold stone,
& prayed thus; 'Master, bless this ever writing hand,
Make me an instrument of thine muses songs.
That I too may be "God of love's servant serve,
Prayen for speed, al sholde I therefore sterve."
Fill my mind with verses, songs & prose,
That I too may celebrate this language I have learned.
I too but hope one day to be remembered.
Amen."