Poets, take heart, for all we love we write,

And all we write is true, and written, lives

For later times arid for our own delight,

Given the great good word that passion gives.

Nothing that poets love is lost. Take heart.

Ours is a much renewed renewing joy

The world runs down, its pavements crack apart, .

But a poem stands for the fallen walls of Troy.

The lights burn black. Rock splits. The poem stands

The words, the words, were never written, in vain;

This page will long outlive these living hands.

Writing, we serve like seed and sun and rain

The one gigantic, purposeful, blind will

That gave man life and keeps him living still.