O ye dead Poets, who are living still <br />Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, <br />And ye, O living Poets, who are dead <br />Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, <br />Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, <br />With drops of anguish falling fast and red <br />From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head <br />Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill? <br />Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song <br />Have something in them so divinely sweet, <br />It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; <br />Not in the clamour of the crowded street, <br />Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, <br />But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poets/
