To Shakespeare

 

Monarch of words, three hundred years hast thou
Reigned in a splendour only thine, and grown
In fame, and ever growing, since thine own
Fair Stratford heard thine earliest baby crow,
Then claimed thy clay and laid to rest they brow
Within the tomb. But all unchallenged, lone,
Still sits the Avon monarch on his throne,
And no devotee sees without a bow.
“The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones!”
True, yea, but thou wast of those rarer ones
That prove the rule! A living diadem
Thou leav’st behind to them that follow on,
That they might dream and walk where thou hast gone.