A Poets Compromise When O'er the night has dawned its face, And beckoned sleep to come. Few will arise in their place, The poets absent the sun. Sages old and scholars new, Have kept their lamps burnt bright. But none shapes beauty half as true, As the poets of the night. From vanished time immemorial, Are the words that carry on. Their pieces so pictorial, Seem to seep into the dawn. So when alas the ink has dried, And the hand has faded away. This brave remnant will abide, A brilliance that cannot decay. For though time will pass me by, My words will live on through. Vestige you may identify, A work so eminently true. Poets old and poets new, Begin to write, compose. But just as soon as they grew, They came into a close. So when O'er the light has dawned its face, And beckoned open eyes. A few will sleep in their place, The poets compromise...