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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523137" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doctor. Ah! thou, too, <br>Sad Alighieri, like a waning moon <br>Setting in storm behind a grove of bays! <br> Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who wove his web <br>And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth <br>Immortal, having burn’d all that could burn, <br>And leaving only what shall still be found <br>Untouch’d, nor with the small of fire upon it, <br>Under the final ashes of this world. <br> Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton!<br> Balder. Switzerland and home. <br>I ne’er see Milton, but I see the Alps, <br>As once, sole standing on a peak supreme, <br>To the extremest verge summit and gulf <br>I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp,<br>O’er which the rising and the sinking soul <br>Sails into distance, heaving as a ship <br>O’er a great sea that sets to strands unseen. <br>And as the mounting and descending bark, <br>Borne on exulting by the under deep,<br>Gains of the wild wave something not the wave, <br>Catches a joy of going, and a will <br>Resistless, and upon the last lee foam <br>Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul <br>upon the Alpine ocean mountain-toss’d, <br>Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged <br>To darkness, and still wet with drops of death <br>Held into light eternal, and again <br>Cast down, to be again uplift in vast <br>And infinite succession, cannot stay <br>The mad momentum, but in frenzied sight <br>Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies <br>And the untried Inane, springs on the surge <br>Of things, and passing matter by a force <br>Material, thro’ vacuity careers,<br>Rising and falling. <br> Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call <br>Milton your Alps, and which is he among <br>The tops of Andes? Keep your Paradise, <br>And Eves, and Adams, but give me the Earth<br>That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave and gay <br>With Shakespeare’s men and women; let me laugh <br>Or weep with them, and you—a wager,—aye, <br>A wager by my faith—either his muse <br>Was the recording angel, or that hand <br>Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life, <br>Caught what the last relaxing gripe let fall <br>By a death-bed at Stratford, and hence-forth <br>Holds Shakespeare’s pen. Now strain your sinews, poet, <br>And top your Pelion,—Milton Switzerland,<br>And English Shakespeare— <br> Balder. This dear English land! <br>This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, <br>Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, <br>And bloom’d from hill to dell; but whose best flowers <br>Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair <br>Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods <br>The pulsing torrent of a nation’s heart: <br>Whose forests stronger than her native oaks <br>Are living men; and whose unfathom’d lakes<br>Forever calm the unforgotten dead <br>In quiet graveyards willow’d seemly round, <br>O’er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face. <br>Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old <br>Thro’ unremember’d years, around whose base<br>The ever-surging peoples roll and roar <br>Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas <br>That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains, <br>Souls that from this mere footing of the earth <br>Lift their great virtues thro’ all clouds of Fate <br>Up to the very heavens, and make them rise <br>To keep the gods above us!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523137" data-title="Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="Doctor. Ah! thou, too, 
Sad Alighieri, like a waning moon 
Setting in storm behind a grove of bays! 
 Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who wove his web 
And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth 
Immortal, having burn’d all that could burn, 
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