Here is Shakespeare's Sonnet # 17:

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.

The subject of this work is now immortal. She will live as long as Shakespeare's words are read. 

Isn't that what we all seek as poets? Isn't immortality, in a way, what we all seek as human beings?

So write on, Poets! Continue to share your love, your hate, your passion, your very soul. 

Maybe if all the stars align in just the right configuration, some future philosopher will read your words and share them with some future reader and you too will be immortal.