 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
SHAKSPEAR.
As on some morning of assurèd Spring,When Winter spends himself; with peevish wind
Puffs out his cheeks, vexed to be left behind;
While yet his last rude efforts do but fling
The leafy curtains wide, and help birds sing
His sweet farewell, the Sun his ways unkind
Rebukes, and, scattering clouds of sky and mind,
Sweet airs from heaven and golden looks doth bring!
So on the rearward clouds of troublous times
Our Shakespear sunlike rose, towering in the van
Of mighty spirits, while the morning-chimes
Rang out of day more than Virgilian.
Chaucer, our lark—fit harbinger—sang Primes,
And Matins, and that fuller day foreran.
| Stones from The Quarry | |