Bard immortal, your word is as a ledge
On which men lean and vision life at best.
Alas! that Lachesis withheld the pledge
That every verse of worth will now attest!
Those seeing eyes that see not ever quail--
Their length or lot of life determines sight.
I stand condemned if in my day I fail
To meet your word and there behold the light.
Were it not fitting then, serving life's hours
To bear the best a poet's heart e'er gives
And measure to this heritage of ours,
Nor miss one cadenced line where Shakespeare lives?
"The April of his prime" speaks in this place--
Through windows of my age his light I trace.