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.