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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530288" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Poet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530288" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride <br>Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride? <br> <br>The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things, <br>Or diamonds fit to shine from the diadems of kings? <br> <br>Sing, O poet, the moods of thy moments each <br>Perfect to thee whatever the meaning it reach. <br> <br>Let the years find if it be as a soulless stone, <br>Or under the words which hide there be a glory alone. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530288" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"></a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Thomas+William+Heney">Thomas William Heney</a></strong></div>

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