To the Londoners
Time is now writing with her impressive hand
Shakespeare's black play, his twenty-fourth.
What can we do, who know the bitter taste,
but here, by this leaden river, re-enact
those tragic lines of Halmet, Casear, Lear? --
or maybe guide, as an escort, to her tomb,
child Juliet, poor dove, guide her with songs and torches;
or play the Peeping Tom in Macbeth's windows,
trembling no less than the hired murderer,
Only not this one, not this one, not this one --
this one we do not have the strength to read.
~1940
~Photo found here.
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