Classic Poem

Who sees the thorns beneath the crown,
Upon a poet's head?
Who knows they sometimes sing to drown
Some horrid, haunting dread?

Who knows what fears beset their way?
Who knows, who cares indeed,
So sweetness charms within the lay,
That aching temples bleed?

Who knows how much they long to shrink
Misfortune's cruel cup?
Who knows what bitter wine they drink,
Who drain that poison up?

Ah, never say the poet writes
The sweeter for his pain;
'Tis false! the dying soldier fights,
A bloody field to gain.