On Poets (2007)

Though poets sing of many things:
The wild and the free,
The most sublime of humankind
And human misery,
The novel and the commonplace,
The greatest and the least;
They always seek that single grace
Ashine in night's bejewelled face,
Whose light has never ceased.

If ever you have watched them close
When they have been inspired:
Now blowing gently on a spark
Imagination fired,
Now guarding it with memory,
Then with it they will play,
Yet trace its meaning earnestly
For like the pale anemone
Too soon it fades away.

Despite their many frailties
And consequent mistakes,
When inspiration catches them
And poetry awakes,
These mortals just a moment past
Shake off their mortal skin;
With beamy spirits unsurpassed
Become as stars, whose beams outlast
Life's transitory din.

To each a solitary soul,
To each a melody;
To each an ear with witch to hear
A timeless harmony;
To modulate their voice among
The many come before;
To sing a part as yet unsung
That cheers the old, and stirs the young
Their genius to outpour.

These sons and daughters of the light
Blaze forth eternally;
Each steals a Promethean spark,
Defying Jove's decree.
Each stands before his own demise
And finds his courage near,
For if he gaze across the skies,
How many of his brethren's eyes
And works to him appear?

Exemplars of what man can be
They live all times at once;
They dream for those as yet unborn:
All generations hence.
They even breach those ages cold
When tongues have fallen dumb;
The while they sing no thought is old,
Then Beauty's tale is freshly told,
For Beauty they've become.