Children of the Night

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.