Sadder than Shakespeare's Death, the Wanderer

On a spring day at the death of Shakespeare
Stormed through the quiet tundra Doc Williams.

Against his advice I strike my sonnets
Don't can't take me away from my illness.

I write my own medicine into it.
a yellow flower blooming in letters

They are a part of a song left unsaid
If love was within it went unnoticed

Though pleasant enough an afternoon was
Everything sort of seemed a disaster.

Nothing seemed serener in centuries
What I remember of you, Wanderer

Is how you come into the poem Moaning:
"Where have all of my people gone Away?"