For Shakespeare, as I met him in London

Oh, marble eyes of greatness past, stare on-
in chilly hall of monuments, and stone
and cold, and rigid statues here, stare on.
Your poet's eyes, in life your spirit's throne-
In death unblinking, shiny, stony, still.
Whose eyes in dimness here have your eyes met?
My own young eyes met yours and, strong of will
your face perused, your poems praised, my debt,
my artist's homage paid. I bowed my head;
You, yours, did not- but on you gaze and all
and nothing see. How bold, with life still wed,
my eyes do yours dare meet. I heed art's call
and Write- a path to you to clear,
Your verse to praise, Your grace to hear.

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