Shine, Poet!

If thou indeed derive thy light from heaven Then, 

to the measure of that heaven-born light 
 

Shine, Poet! 

In thy place, and be content: 
 

The stars pre-eminent in magnitude 
And they that from the zenith dart their beams 
(Visible though they be half to the earth,Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) 
 

Are yet of no diviner origin 
No putter essence, 

than the one that burns, 
Like an untended watch-fire, 

on the ridge 
Of some dark mountain; 

Or than those which seem 
Humbly to hang, 

like twinkling winter lamps, 
 

Among the branches of the leafless tress; 

All are the undying offspring of one Sire 
Then, 

to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 

Shine, Poet! 

In thy place, and be content.