49 . To the Poet

WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride

Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride?

The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things,

Or diamonds fit to shine from the diadems of kings?

Sing, O poet, the moods of thy moments each

Perfect to thee whatever the meaning it reach.

Let the years find if it be as a soulless stone,

Or under the words which hide there be a glory alone.