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.