No viewless mind!  The very shape, no less,
He used to speak and smile with, move and stand! 
God is most God not in his loneliness,
Unfellowed, discreationed, unrevealed,
Nor thundering on Sinai, pitiless,
Nor when the seven vials are unsealed,
But when his spirit companions with our thought
And in his fellowship our pain is healed;
And we are likest God when we are brought
Most near to all men.  Bring us near to him,
The gentle, human soul whose calm might wrought
Imperious Lear and made our eyes grow dim
For Imogen,—­who, though he heard the spheres
“Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim,”
Could laugh with Falstaff and his loose compeers
And love the rascal with the same big heart
That o’er Cordelia could not stay its tears.

For still the man is greater than his art. 
And though thy men and women, Shakespeare, rise
Like giants in our fancy and depart,
Thyself art more than all their masteries,
Thy wisdom more than Hamlet’s questionings
Or the cold searching of Ulysses’ eyes,
Thy mirth more sweet than Benedick’s flouts and flings,
Thy smiling dearer than Mercutio’s,
Thy dignity past that of all thy kings,
And thy enchantment more than Prospero’s.

For thou couldst not have had Othello’s flaw,
Not erred with Brutus,—­greater, then, than those
For all their nobleness.  Oh, albeit with awe,
Leave we the mighty phantoms and draw near
The man that fashioned them and gave them law! 
The Master Poet found with scarce a peer
In all the ages his domain to share,
Yet of all singers gentlest and most dear! 
Oh, how shall words thy proper praise declare,
Divine in thy supreme humanity
And near as the inevitable air?

So he that wrought this image deemed of thee;
So I, thy lover, keep thee in my heart;
So may this figure set for men to see
Where the world passes eager for the mart,
Be as a sudden insight of the soul
That makes a darkness into order start,
And lift thee up for all men, fair and whole,
Till scholar, merchant farmer, artisan,
Seeing, divine beneath the aureole
The fellow heart and know thee for a man.

AT THE ROAD-HOUSE:  IN MEMORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

You hearken, fellows?  Turned aside
Into the road-house of the past! 
The prince of vagabonds is gone
To house among his peers at last.

The stainless gallant gentleman,
So glad of life, he gave no trace,
No hint he even once beheld
The spectre peering in his face;

But gay and modest held the road,
Nor feared the Shadow of the Dust;
And saw the whole world rich with joy,
As every valiant farer must.

I think that old and vasty inn
Will have a welcome guest to-night,
When Chaucer, breaking off some tale
That fills his hearers with delight,