Pulse of the Bard, Or, Professor

Oh, the full, the precious words, The darling letters, lighting gray, Like thousands of thousands of baby birds Come to carry my dreams away! The pages waft, sweet and mellow And spicy subtle scents of old. Are they stained an aged yellow? No. They've grown a glowing gold. I know a man whose wrinkled page Glows such a gold with passioned glee. His face, though leathered and heavy with age Seems all the more rare and beloved to me. For the soul of a poet is forever unchanged And the Pulse of the Bard yet floods his veins.