Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire, <br />Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star! <br />Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far. <br />Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre <br />Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire <br />Where all ye sang together, all that are, <br />And all the starry songs behind thy car <br />Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire. <br />"If all the pens that ever poets held <br />Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts," <br />And as with rush of hurtling chariots <br />The flight of all their spirits were impelled <br />Toward one great end, thy glory -- nay, not then, <br />Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of men.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christopher-marlowe/
