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.
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