To The Poet

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.