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