Sonnet 107, by NY Shakespeare Exchange

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
     And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
     When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

Sonnet 107, from The Sonnet Project, by the New York Shakespeare Exchange.

This one reminds me of WB Yeats' `Sailing to Byzantium, particularly the last stanza:

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

True, the Irish poet speaks about mortality vis-a-vis immortality, while the English sonnet master dwells on life and death in particular.  Still, the outcome seems the same: John Kinsherf fashions himself into monument, much as Yeats' old man longs to be a statue.