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Edwin Arlington Robinson - Sonnet 36: The Children of the Night
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THE MASTER and the slave go hand in hand,	
Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave,	
And there be kings do sorrowfully crave	
The joyance that a scullion may command.	
But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand	       
The mission of his bondage, or the grave	
May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save	
The perfect word that is the poet’s wand.	
 
The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes	
Are for Thought’s purest gold the jewel-stones;	       
But shapes and echoes that are never done	
Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes	
Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones	
The crash of battles that are never won.
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