I

The stars die out on Avon's watchful breast, While simple shepherds climb through shadows grey, With beating bosoms up the Wrekin's Crest To see the sun "dance in" an Easter Day Whose dawning consummates three centuries-- Since Shakespeare's death and entrance to the skies-- Resolved the radiant miracle not to miss Reserved alone to earliest opened eyes. We, too, with faces set towards the East, Our joyful orison offerings yielding up Keep with our risen Lord His Pascal feast From Paten Blest and Consecrated Cup, And give Him thanks Who of all realms of Earth Made England richest by her Shakespeare's birth.