Thomas William Heney
To The Poet
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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (To The Poet by Thomas William Heney )
- Mind's Heart, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Unrest Soul: Imperfection, Onyekachukwu Vincent Onyeche
- OVER THE TOP, Donald R Charon
- Supernova, Herman Dexter
- Ho Hum, Michael McParland
- Backbone Of A Nation, Joseph T. Renaldi
- Vertigo, Nassy Fesharaki
- Worthy Expressions, Joseph T. Renaldi
- Flight Of Fairies, Nicholas Nikolov
- Goodnight Kiss, Nicholas Nikolov
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(22 March 1941 -)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)