Thomas William Heney (1862 - 1928 / Australia)
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.