Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, <br />Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! <br />His voice is heard, but body there is none <br />To fix the vague excursions of the eye. <br />So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die <br />Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud, <br />And Earth inherits the rich melody <br />Like raining music from the morning cloud. <br />Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud <br />Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: <br />The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd <br />Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race; <br />But only lark and nightingale forlorn <br />Fill up the silences of night and morn.<br /><br />Thomas Hood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/false-poets-and-true-to-wordsworth/
