For Kipling, ‘triumph and disaster’
Were one ‘impostor’ dressed as two
Thomas saw life in the death of a daisy
A ‘snow blind love’ in a ‘hellborn dew’
Plath knew ‘the knife not carve, but enter’
Lived ‘to the knucklebones’, left with a sigh
Wordsworth with his ‘half-blown rose’
Reaped ‘the harvest of a quiet eye’
Keats perceived the ‘lurking trouble’
in Endymion’s rosy bottom lip
Eliot took us to a place between
‘the roads that rise and the ones that dip’
Browning’s ‘nameless’ mysteries drop
‘as snow upon a blind man’s face’
Blake bade us ‘kiss the joy as it flies’
Brought God to meet the human race
Brooke’s ‘young heavens, forgetful after rain;
And evening hush, broken by homing wings’
Spender’s ancestral memory is
‘blood’ that’s ‘drawn from ageless springs’
Byron’s Prometheus proclaims a life
to which our ‘Spirit may oppose’
But in the ‘redness of wine’ there softly lies
Yeats’s ‘Incorruptible Rose’
As you, my friend, have shown to me
The quiet struggle to stand tall
Can bring to life beyond the strife
The poet that stutters in us all.
subincontinentia 
i will take the last two stanzas home and leave the rest for an English lit. major
Your Dad must have been very proud of you and your writing Becky.And to have had you write this for him, I just can’t Imagine!