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.