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, they are like a reporter But their stories do not come second hand. When their 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 they paid for that seed with their 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.