The Poet and the Player

The poet met the player in summer When the days are long and the roses bloom She rhymed the word summer with lover And he smiled as his strings he tuned The poet loved the player in autumn When the trees turn as golden as sunbeams And the player strummed and sang of freedom And the poet compared him to a dream The poet missed the player in winter When distances seem to grow with the cold There's much merit in words, but cold fingers Do so beg for a lover's hand to hold But the poet gave the player her heart And that is the way the sweetest songs start