The Poet Dies
The poet dies, but does not die
If he has left a line
Black inked upon enduring page
Or lingered on the mind.
With no thought than to see it grow,
The gardener plants a tree,
His immortality assured,
Shade for posterity.
We each must find unique approach
To prove that we were here;
No surer way than nurtured child
In whom our truths appear.
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