Themes and Variations/The Poet
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.
He is the odd plate in a set of delft.
But yet, despite of all, I like him well.
And many an evening have I laughed and sighed
By turns, when he would read us from his book,
The Merry Wives, or that Midsummer Dream,
Or grim Macbeth, or the pale mourning Prince,
They say the play-house up in London town
Is often swarming like a hive of bees
When his play’s on. And lords and ladies go
And cry with pleasure at his mummeries.
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.
He is the odd plate in a set of delft.
But yet, despite of all, I like him well.
And many an evening have I laughed and sighed
By turns, when he would read us from his book,
The Merry Wives, or that Midsummer Dream,
Or grim Macbeth, or the pale mourning Prince,
They say the play-house up in London town
Is often swarming like a hive of bees
When his play’s on. And lords and ladies go
And cry with pleasure at his mummeries.
I do believe there’s something yet in them
—Not like the solid works of former days—
But still a hook to catch an idle hour.
And you have heard of him, have come from far
To see him? Think he is a genius too?
Well, well, who knows?—For genius—mark me, sir,
Is such a cuckoo that we never guess
Into what nest she lays her sea-blue egg.
But yet, for all that, I’ve a thought I’d know
A genius when I’d see one. Like enough
Our neighbour Brownus Alexandrius
Will yet be heard of in the eminent world,
He has a turn for writing,—tomes on tomes!
And oft I’ve heard him say he will be known
As the great poet of Elizabeth,
You showd call in and see him on your way.
As for Will Shakespeare,—though I wish him well,
A kindly friend, a rare and welcome guest,
I will be bound you’ll never hear of him:
Striking a bargain with my Lady Fame,
I may be wrong, but,—Sir, the wine’s with you.’
—Not like the solid works of former days—
But still a hook to catch an idle hour.
And you have heard of him, have come from far
To see him? Think he is a genius too?
Well, well, who knows?—For genius—mark me, sir,
Is such a cuckoo that we never guess
Into what nest she lays her sea-blue egg.
But yet, for all that, I’ve a thought I’d know
A genius when I’d see one. Like enough
Our neighbour Brownus Alexandrius
Will yet be heard of in the eminent world,
He has a turn for writing,—tomes on tomes!
And oft I’ve heard him say he will be known
As the great poet of Elizabeth,
You showd call in and see him on your way.
As for Will Shakespeare,—though I wish him well,
A kindly friend, a rare and welcome guest,
I will be bound you’ll never hear of him:
Striking a bargain with my Lady Fame,
I may be wrong, but,—Sir, the wine’s with you.’