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The Poet
19
THE POET.
Somehow, Horatio, when you speak of him,
I seem to see him—in thought’s pictured house,
Under a vaulted roof, with oak embossed,
The walls fair tapestried with history,
Doors opening wide before him, marble steps,
Three centuries’ sunshine on his stately head,
Shakespeare, the Host of Time. . . .
But if you go
Back to the home and day wherein he dwelt,
And sitting with a neighbour,—next the fire,
A window westward, paned with scaly glass,
A bunch of filberts and a silver cup
Close to your hand,—then you might hear of him.
. . . ‘Shakespeare of Avon? Oh yes, I know him well,
Have known him since he was a babe in arms.
I like him well, though he is somewhat strange,
Not quite—you understand?—an absent soul.
At times he can be shrewder than the best,
But often as we talk, or on the road,
He pays no heed, sir, no, not to one word
That I am saying! ’Tis his weakness, sure.
He falls within that pale moon-world of dreams
Whence come his merry days and tragedies.
I seem to see him—in thought’s pictured house,
Under a vaulted roof, with oak embossed,
The walls fair tapestried with history,
Doors opening wide before him, marble steps,
Three centuries’ sunshine on his stately head,
Shakespeare, the Host of Time. . . .
But if you go
Back to the home and day wherein he dwelt,
And sitting with a neighbour,—next the fire,
A window westward, paned with scaly glass,
A bunch of filberts and a silver cup
Close to your hand,—then you might hear of him.
. . . ‘Shakespeare of Avon? Oh yes, I know him well,
Have known him since he was a babe in arms.
I like him well, though he is somewhat strange,
Not quite—you understand?—an absent soul.
At times he can be shrewder than the best,
But often as we talk, or on the road,
He pays no heed, sir, no, not to one word
That I am saying! ’Tis his weakness, sure.
He falls within that pale moon-world of dreams
Whence come his merry days and tragedies.