IT was deep April, and the morn
Shakspere was born ;
The world was on us, pressing sore ;
My Love and I took hands and swore,
Against the world, to be
Poets and lovers evermore,
To laugh and dream on Lethe's shore.
To sing to Charon in his boat.
Heartening the timid souls afloat ;
Of judgment never to take heed.
But to those fast-locked souls to speed,
Who never from Apollo fled.
Who spent no hour among the dead ;
With them to dwell.
Indifferent to heaven and hell.