On Shakespeare As Inaccessible

why is he so hard to find
even to read, a little.
each time I climb I fall

back a child before
such steep language.
sometimes the flowery vales

I find and try to rest there
but it beckons onward
so that my heart knows

with Rilke, staying my dear
is nowhere.
no one interpretation satisfies.

and those who simplify him
I think, commit crimes though
they do not mean to

casting him as accessible.
the least of all words I would
ascribe to him. impossible!

and so I start again
the starry slopes to climb
as if to God

and wait on Time and miracle
to read these lines
at last, from the jeweled inside

and weep to read
whatever I can find.

mary angela douglas 8 december 2015