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Poem	We were three weeks Into term, Sheila, When you came Through the classroom door; Forty-four children Bent over books, Copying Roethke’s ‘The Lost Son’. You wrote your First poem on the ‘Moses’ Of Michelangelo. Words cut like stone. I taught you Greek But your painting of ‘The Essence of the Rose’ Was pure Platonic form. You drew the masks Of Comedy and Tragedy In perfect harmony. Having seen neither; So Socrates was right. Those who have the Spirit’s gift Will one day find the light.
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