Stratford

Hours and hours today I squandered...
Here a glover’s son once wandered,
Squinting at the splayed, half-timbered 
Canted, tilted, caved, lilt-limbered
Dwelling house, its yard and portal
Mary’s son long made immortal —
From these doors came William, strolling,
Sharp eyes in fine frenzy rolling,
Babbling from the Muse’s lottery,
Cock-a-hoop to woo in Shottery,
Then to rue his lot at leisure,
London players, Fortune’s pleasure,
Fate the bow and Wit the quiver...
Bless these streets, 
this town, 
this river!

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