THEY who create rob death of half its stings; They, from the dim inane and vague opaque Of nothingness, build with their thought, and make Enduring entities and beauteous things; They are the Poets -- they give airy wings To shapes marmorean; or they overtake The Ideal with the brush, or, soaring, wake Far in the rolling clouds their glorious strings. The Poet is the only potentate; His sceptre reaches o'er remotest zones; His thought remembered and his golden tones Shall, in the ears of nations uncreate, Roll on for ages and reverberate When Kings are dust beside forgotten thrones. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO WORDSWORTH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER DEATH by THOMAS HOOD SONNET ON FAME (2) by JOHN KEATS THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET by JOHN STERLING (1806-1844) STRANGER by HARRIET GRAY BLACKWELL NO HEIGHTS by NELLIE GRAY BOURDEAUX APRIL by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |