The centuries and sundry years
gone by since thy nativity!
Still this imperfect globe reveres
thine almost perfect poetry.

I sin in saying (but I will)
the passing of centuries
has not attained thy feats of quill
in any of thy proteges.

True, there have been poets born
who, by their own devices, have,
with words sublime, defined the dawn,
the perfect girl, the perfect love

and in Muse-prompted eulogies,
have told their tales of truth and tribe,
filling verse anthologies,
each to his word his age's scribe.

But thou, superlative Shakespeare,
thy very name stands to define
the goal of every bard's career:
to have his fame compared with thine.

Vain hope indeed, as if, far flung,
there slept a Stratford unexplored,
or else an England yet unsung,
or yet a world your pen ignored.

So Will, forgive a feeble phrase;
'tis all this scribbler can supply:
your name alone's your highest praise,
the star in every poet's sky.