IS this the Cottage, ivy-girt and crowned, <br />And this the path down which our Shakespeare ran, <br />When, in the April of his love, sweet Anne <br />Made all his mighty pulses throb and bound; <br />Where, mid coy buds and winking flowers around, <br />She blushed a rarer rose than roses can, <br />To greet her Will--even Him, fair Avon's Swan-- <br />Whose name has turned this plot to holy ground! <br /> <br /> <br />To these dear walls, once dear to Shakespeare's eyes, <br />Time's Vandal hand itself has done no wrong; <br />This nestling lattice opened to his song, <br />When, with the lark, he bade his love arise <br />In words whose strong enchantment never dies-- <br />Old as these flowers, and, like them, ever young.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anne-hathaway-s-cottage-2/
