30.04.2007, 11:25
AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
TO EDWIN BOOTH.
THUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read
The words): Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
(Poor ghost!) To digg the dust encloséd heare—
Then came the malediction on the head
Of whoso dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the solemn Stratford church the air
Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb
The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.
TO EDWIN BOOTH.
THUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read
The words): Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
(Poor ghost!) To digg the dust encloséd heare—
Then came the malediction on the head
Of whoso dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the solemn Stratford church the air
Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb
The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.