Shakespeare by

A vision as of crowded city streets,
      With human life in endless overflow;
      Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow
      To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats,
Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;
      Tolling of bells in turrets, and below
      Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw
      O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!
This vision comes to me when I unfold
      The volume of the Poet paramount,
      Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; —
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,
      And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,
      Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.

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