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.