Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

IF tasting Heliconian springsHe of their waters drank not deep,If, smiling, he beheld not thingsRevealed to eyes that weep,If dread Dodona's OracleAnd Delphi's voice for him were mute,If grave Minerva in his pathDropped never silver flute,—

Yet beauty wove a magic spellFor him, and early, at his need,Upon a bed of asphodelHe found a tuneful reed,—The Syrinx-reed Thessalian,Of plaintive, far renown,The universal pipe of Pan,—Where the god laid it down.

Right reverently from the groundHe lifted up the sacred thing,Accepted it with awe profound,With faith unfaltering;And when its music forth he drewEarth half forgot her ancient pain,For Marsyas himself ne'er blewA purer, sweeter strain!

Though still there be who, self-attiredIn robes of judgment some misuse,Protest that he was not inspiredBy the authentic Muse,—Love, granting all his faults to these,Forever holds his name apart,Who moved not senseless stones and trees,But the quick human heart.

"The people's poet." Did he lackReturn? He served in high degreeThe people, and they gave him backTheir immortality!Time careless grows of costly wit,Brave monuments are quickly gone,But that which on the heart is writLives on, and on, and on!