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O ye dead
Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse,
though life be fled,
And ye, O living Poets, who are
dead
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
With drops of
anguish falling fast and red
From the sharp crown of
thorns upon your head
Ye were not glad your errand to
fulfill?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
Have something in them so divinely sweet,
It can
assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamour
of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits
of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and
defeat.
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