So you fancy that you know the poet?
I for one, wouldn’t dare make that claim!
Poets have ventured where few men have been,
And the poet is no stranger to pain.
Poets don’t live on the same plane as most,
Theirs is much deeper and higher.
They have dipped their quills in the blackest of ink
And climbed farther than most can aspire.
In a way, he is like a reporter
But his stories do not come second hand.
When his words bring to life vivid scenes of delight
You can bet there’s more gold in the sand.
The poet who writes of the joys of a puppy
And paints pictures of frolic and play
Has watched his companion grow old and pass on,
And thanked the good Lord for the days.
The man who rejoices at a burgeoning oak
Just breaking forth from the brown
Has sat in the shade of a towering red wood
And wept when it fell to the ground.
When the words of a bard touch you deep with its truth
And ring in your heart like a bell
You can bet that he paid for that seed with his youth
Or snatched it from some unknown hell.
For ‘tis poets, not fools who will quickly rush in
Where good men and angels refrain.
Only there do his cryptic words yield their meaning
Only there can you feign know his pain.