To Shakespeare

Through torrid entrances, past icy poles
A hand moves on the page! Who shall again
Engrave such hazards as thy might controls—
Conflicting, purposeful yet outcry vain
Of all our days, being pilot,—tempest, too!
Sheets that mock lust and thorns that scribble hate
Are lifted from torn flesh with human rue,
And laughter, burnished brighter than our fate
Thou wieldest with such tears that every faction
Swears high in Hamlet's throat, and devils throng
Where angels beg for doom in ghast distraction
—And fail, both! Yet thine Ariel holds his song:
And that serenity that Prospero gains
Is justice that has cancelled earthly chains.