It is enough to make
Laughter, or tears, gush from the stone.
When, in an island where.
On meadow and copse, could break
Chaucer, that other April; where alone
Earth could conceive and bear
Shakespeare, where Milton reigned on awe-
some throne.
And Dryden governed from more mundane
chair;
All perfect masters of their perfect tools,
And royally skilled to take
From each its utmost yield of service fair,
I am put off with posturing fools
Who in such presences cackle all day of Blake.
