Текст оригинала на английском языке
THEY who create rob death of half its stings; They, from the dim inane and vague opaque Of nothingness, build with their thought, and make Enduring entities and beauteous things; They are the Poets--they give airy wings To shapes marmorean; or they overtake The Ideal with the brush, or, soaring, wake Far in the rolling clouds their glorious strings. The Poet is the only potentate; His sceptre reaches o'er remotest zones; His thought remembered and his golden tones Shall, in the ears of nations uncreate, Roll on for ages and reverberate When Kings are dust beside forgotten thrones.
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