Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will -- But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still With the sure strength that fearless truth endows: In spite of all fine science disavows, Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. Whether or not we read him, we can feel From time to time the vigor of his name Against us like a finger for the shame And emptiness of what our souls reveal In books that are as altars where we kneel To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETTERS TO DEAD IMAGISTS by CARL SANDBURG THE INEVITABLE by SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE ROCK OF CASHEL by AUBREY DE VERE ON CRITICS; IN IMITATION OF ANACREON by MATTHEW PRIOR TIRED MOTHERS by MAY LOUISE RILEY SMITH |