by
18??
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.
Return to: First Lines In His Steps