A BOOK OF SONNETS - The Poets

The Poets

O ye dead Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
With drops of anguish falling fast and red
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
Have something in them so divinely sweet,
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

Content of A BOOK OF SONNETS: The Poets [Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem collection: Birds of Passage]

Read next: A BOOK OF SONNETS#Parker Cleaveland

Read previous: A BOOK OF SONNETS#Venice

Table of content of Birds of Passage


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book