O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil? Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song Have something in them so divinely sweet, It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
- by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Juliana Hall (b. 1958), "The poets", 2015 [ bass and piano ], from The Poets -- 5 songs for Bass and Piano, no. 1 [sung text checked 1 time]
Researcher for this text: David Sims [Guest Editor]
This text was added to the website: 2016-03-01
Line count: 14
Word count: 112