Sonnet Ccxxxvii: Poem by George Henry Boker

To hold a station on the trembling earth,
To weary time with looking at our names--
This is the lust that every day inflames
Our pigmy heroes to distend their girth
Is this a spectacle for heavenly mirth,
Or placid sorrow, that our sins and shames
O'erlay the records due to purer fames,
And with unnworthy clamors silence worth?
Never, I answer, have the truly great
Before this worshiped weakness of the crowd
Abased the spirit which their God made proud.
Serenely Shakespeare held his regal state,
As far above the thought of earthly fate
As is the star above the stooping cloud.