| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
| |
| II. The Children of the Night |
| 33. George Crabbe |
| |
| GIVE him the darkest inch your shelf allows, | |
| Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,— | |
| But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still | |
| With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. | |
| In spite of all fine science disavows, | 5 |
| Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill | |
| There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, | |
| Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. | |
| |
| Whether or not we read him, we can feel | |
| From time to time the vigor of his name | 10 |
| Against us like a finger for the shame | |
| And emptiness of what our souls reveal | |
| In books that are as altars where we kneel | |
| To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. | |
|
|
