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The Poet
Feelings,
Scattered all around,
Are no more than lonely beads
That shine on us but have no bound
Until a poet does come along
And gather them in a song,
That stirs the pulse in the cloud,
Thus making it a heavenly mold
Of a lovely piece of art
For the body, and the heart,
Or is it not as fair to say:
A Poem is a piece of heart?
A poet is a lonely soul
That has within, the mighty world
Dismantled in the haze,
But seems to be the golden cord
That fills the beads in a phrase
To help the world fulfill the goal!
No one can dream of one to know
How this mysterious task is done
Unless the soul can feel it’s ONE
With all that breathes in the air!
For that will not be right or fair
Until it bathes in the snow
And feels the coolness in the Sun,
And in the purity of the dew,
It faces none that is untrue!
