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.

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