I stand by the stair-head in the upper hall; The rooms to the left and right are locked as before. Once I found entrance, but now never more, And Time leans forward with his glassy wall. IN PROCESSION Donne (for example’s sake), Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake, Shelley and Milton, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton-- We love them as we know them, But who could dare outgo them At their several arts, At their particular parts Of wisdom, power and knowledge? In the Poets’ College 10 Are no degrees nor stations, Comparisons, rivals, Stern examinations, Class declarations, Senior survivals; No creeds, religions, nations Combatant together With mutual damnations. Or tell me whether Shelley’s hand could take 20 The laurel wreath from Blake? Could Shakespeare make the less Chaucer’s goodliness? The poets of old, Each with his pen of gold Gloriously writing, Found no need for fighting, In common being so rich; None need take the ditch, Unless this Chaucer beats 30 That Chaucer, or this Keats With other Keats is flyting: See Donne deny Donne’s feats, Shelley take Shelley down, Blake snatch at his own crown. Without comparison aiming high, Watching with no jealous eye A neighbour’s renown, Each in his time contended, But with a mood late ended, 40 Some manner now put by, Or force expended, Sinking a new well when the old ran dry. So like my masters I Voice my ambition loud, In prospect proud, Treading the poet’s road, In retrospect most humble, For I stumble and tumble, I spill my load. 50