Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, <br />Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,— <br />But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still <br />With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. <br />In spite of all fine science disavows, <br />Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill <br />There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, <br />Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. <br /> <br />Whether or not we read him, we can feel <br />From time to time the vigor of his name <br />Against us like a finger for the shame <br />And emptiness of what our souls reveal <br />In books that are as altars where we kneel <br />To consecrate the flicker, not the flame.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/george-crabbe/
