  Sweet as the dewfall, splendid as the south, Love touched with speech Boccaccio's golden mouth, Joy thrilled and filled its utterance full with song, And sorrow smiled on doom that wrought no wrong. A starrier lustre of lordlier music rose Beyond the sundering bar of seas and snows When Chaucer's thought took life and light from his And England's crown was one with Italy's. Loftiest and last, by grace of Shakespeare's word, Arose above their quiring spheres a third, Arose, and flashed, and faltered: song's deep sky Saw Shakespeare pass in light, in music die. No light like his, no music, man might give To bid the darkened sphere, left songless, live. Soft though the sound of Fletcher's rose and rang And lit the lunar darkness as it sang, Below the singing stars the cloud-crossed moon Gave back the sunken sun's a trembling tune. As when at highest high tide the sovereign sea Pauses, and patience doubts if passion be, Till gradual ripples ebb, recede, recoil, Shine, smile, and whisper, laughing as they toil, Stark silence fell, at turn of fate's high tide, Upon his broken song when Shakespeare died, What evening, should it speak for morning, may. And fourfold now the gradual glory shines That shows once more in heaven two twinborn signs, Two brethren stars whose light no cloud may fret, No soul whereon their story dawns forget. |
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