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IN SHAKSPERE’'S ROOM

BY BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT

T was in the April of the year, A Stratford child was born,

And earth has held an added cheer Since that far April morn.

Now while the voice of April calls, ’Mid song and whir of wing,

We muse within these royal walls— The birth-room of a king!

A humble room, in sooth, it seems, Low ceiling—dingy wall;

Yet here began the wondrous dreams That hold the world in thrall.

The hearth fire flickered faint and low, Without a hint of flame;

The embers kept a hidden glow The April day he came.

His youth was such as others knew; His childhood not o’erwrought;

He mused and dreamed the young years thro’, And learned as Nature taught.

His mind was quick to understand The voices of the air,

And Nature led him by the hand, And showed him treasures rare.

He roamed along the Avon-stream, Or leaned above its brim;

And evermore its quiet dream Was sweetest charm to him.

He came to earth so long ago!— Three hundred years, they say; Long since he went, as all must go,

But still he lives to-day;

The years can never make him old; The echoes of his strains,

The songs he sang, the tales he told, They live while love remains.

Had he not come to Stratford-town Beside the Avon-stream,—

Had he not worn the poet’s crown And dreamed the poet’s dream,

How poor the world of song had been! How void the realm of art!

What voice had made the whole world kin? Or read the human heart?

He found in everything some good, In homely ill some grace;

He oped the gates of Arden-wood To all the weary race;

Copyright, 1914, by THr CeENTURY Co. All rights reserved.

Gougle

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