“The Bard of Avon”—better yet, the god!
Bardolatry has long since made this claim:
Where Shakespeare prances, other poets plod,
And none compares in mastery or fame.
At sonnetry, his hundred fifty-four
Outshine anthologies of rival scribes
Who seek to emulate what they adore,
But for their pains earn cool, derisive jibes.
For who can hope to share Parnassus’ peak
With genius such as his, a solitaire
To their rough-cut, unpolished gems, dull, bleak
Factotums of the jewels he made so rare.
Still, we who follow meekly in his track
Pray that the Muse may sometime bless a hack.