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,
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
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.
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