Michael Field

It was deep April, and the morn

   Shakespeare 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 judgement never to take heed,

But to those fast-locked souls to speed,

Whoe never from Apollo fled,

Who spent no hour among the dead;

   Continually

   With them to dwell,

Indifferent to heaven and hell.