V

Up from moorlands northward gleaming

Even to heaven's transcendent height,

Clothed with massive cloud, and seeming

All one fortress reared of night,

Down to where the deep sea, dreaming

Angry dreams, lay dark and white,

White as death and dark as fate,

Heaving with the strong wind's weight,

Sad with stormy pride of state,

One full rainbow shone elate.

Up from inmost memory's dwelling

Where the light of life abides,

Where the past finds tongue, foretelling

Time that comes and grace that guides,

Power that saves and sways, compelling

Souls that ebb and flow like tides,

Shone or seemed to shine and swim

Through the cloud-surf great and grim,

Thought's live surge, the soul of him

By whose light the sun looks dim.

In what synod were they sitting,

All the gods and lords of time,

Whence they watched as fen-fires flitting

Years and names of men sublime,

When their counsels found it fitting

One should stand where none might climb —

None of man begotten, none

Born of men beneath the sun

Till the race of time be run,

Save this heaven-enfranchised one?

With what rapture of creation

Was the soul supernal thrilled,

With what pride of adoration

Was the world's heart fired and filled,

Heaved in heavenward exaltation

Higher than hopes or dreams might build,

Grave with awe not known while he

Was not, mad with glorious glee

As the sun-saluted sea,

When his hour bade Shakespeare be?