SHAKESPEARE

 

The Master strolled upon the beach,

And stooped to find

Among the shells washed up in heaps,

Mere husks of Mind—

 

Selecting them to suit his sense

Of what would score

To entertain an audience

That roared for more.

 

But did he ever come to know

Whence flowed his Art?

In all his dramas and his poems,

This plays no part.

 

For I have put him to the test,

And placed his shell

Beside my ear, and tried to guess

What he might tell.

 

But past the echoes of his voice

I could not hear.

Though all his Art made me rejoice,

The end was clear:

 

To charm me whilst he struts his hour

Upon the stage—

His tales evolved by that same power

My dreams engage.

 

Then I to the one source of being

As close may stand,

Or closer than he to the stream

That moved his hand.

 

Refute me with my own poor lines:

This dog, perforce,

Devours the carcass of the lion

And barks his roar.