Poets

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.