I sought through Shakspere's city far and wide, For Shakspere -- empty quest for any trace, In London's labyrinth where interlace The currents of the world, of that full tide Of love and life called Shakspere. There abide No cherished shrines to which the human race May make its loving pilgrimage; the face Of Bankside strange hath grown, and Southwark's pride Lies leveled in the dust. Yet last of all, Upon the Thames, deep down 'neath barred door, I saw a tattered testament -- men call It his -- and stranger than all ancient lore I read the doubtful name amid the scrawl -- More precious grown than mine of golden ore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRUIMPH OF ART by JOSEPHINE TURCK BAKER DOOMSDAY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 10 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 23 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A MARSH MESSAGE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON VISTAS OF LABOR: 2. THE MINER by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |