I hung my verses in the wind, br Time and tide their faults may find. br All were winnowed through and through, br Five lines lasted sound and true; br Five were smelted in a pot br Than the South more fierce and hot; br These the siroc could not melt, br Fire their fiercer flaming felt, br And the meaning was more white br Than July's meridian light. br Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, br Nor time unmake what poets know.