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Edwin Arlington Robinson - George Crabbe
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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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