Classic Poem

It is not that you had only one
Very good thought,
Great men survive, as a rule,
By not more than five—sometimes seven.
But they have a way of riding at beauty
With a lifted spear,
And at truth with a sword.
In a cloud of flame and battle they ride—
And their hands are torn.
And you—you said a great many things,
With one good one.
But there are no high, invisible banners
Waving about your words;
There is no mist in your throat,
And the stars do not choke you!