WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride <br />Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride? <br /> <br />The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things, <br />Or diamonds fit to shine from the diadems of kings? <br /> <br />Sing, O poet, the moods of thy moments each <br />Perfect to thee whatever the meaning it reach. <br /> <br />Let the years find if it be as a soulless stone, <br />Or under the words which hide there be a glory alone. <br /> <br /><br /><br />Thomas William Heney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-poet/
