Great constellations that will aye endure,
Though myriad meteors of ephemeral fame
Across them flash, to vanish into night.
Such was our Chaucer in the early prime
Of English verse, who held to Nature’s hand
And walked serenely through its morning land,
Gladsome and hale, brushing its dewy rime.
And such was Shakespeare, whose strong soul could climb
Steeps of sheer terror, sound the ocean grand
Of passions deep, or over Fancy’s strand