Minstrel, what have you to do <br />With this man that, after you, <br />Sharing not your happy fate, <br />Sat as England's Laureate? <br />Vainly, in these iron days, <br />Strives the poet in your praise, <br />Minstrel, by whose singing side <br />Beauty walked, until you died. <br /> <br />Still, though none should hark again, <br />Drones the blue-fly in the pane, <br />Thickly crusts the blackest moss, <br />Blows the rose its musk across, <br />Floats the boat that is forgot <br />None the less to Camelot. <br /> <br />Many a bard's untimely death <br />Lends unto his verses breath; <br />Here's a song was never sung: <br />Growing old is dying young. <br />Minstrel, what is this to you: <br />That a man you never knew, <br />When your grave was far and green, <br />Sat and gossipped with a queen? <br /> <br />Thalia knows how rare a thing <br />Is it, to grow old and sing; <br />When a brown and tepid tide <br />Closes in on every side. <br />Who shall say if Shelley's gold <br />Had withstood it to grow old?<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-poet-that-died-young/
