Shakespeare

A vision as of crowded city streets,

With human life in endless overflow;

Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow

To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats,

Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;

Tolling of bells in turrets, and below

Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw

O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!

This vision comes to me when I unfold

The volume of the Poet paramount,

Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;—

Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,

And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,

Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.