I hung my verses in the wind, <br />Time and tide their faults may find. <br />All were winnowed through and through, <br />Five lines lasted sound and true; <br />Five were smelted in a pot <br />Than the South more fierce and hot; <br />These the siroc could not melt, <br />Fire their fiercer flaming felt, <br />And the meaning was more white <br />Than July's meridian light. <br />Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, <br />Nor time unmake what poets know. <br />Have you eyes to find the five <br />Which five hundred did survive?<br /><br />Ralph Waldo Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-test-11/
