To The Poet |
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WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride
Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride?
The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things,
Or diamonds fit to shine from the diadems of kings?
Sing, O poet, the moods of thy moments each
Perfect to thee whatever the meaning it reach.
Let the years find if it be as a soulless stone,
Or under the words which hide there be a glory alone.
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Ah, happy air that, rough or soft,
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Classic Poems
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If I could have your arms tonight-
But half the world and the broken sea
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A boy a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
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Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast,
For a moment let the warning bugles cease;
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One night
one night all full of murmurings, of perfumes and music of wings;
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Eight Parts of Speech this Day wear Mourning Gowns
Declin'd Verbs, Pronouns, Participles, Nouns.
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