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,
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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