Every poet has a world that is his own,
And though to you it may not seem quite true—
In it, he is the creator, playing cherished Lear!
Open to the line of feeling, and akin to it too.
His verse takes flight within the dark of night:
It holds the very touch of some deep mystery.
He has the keys to every soul's true light.
The poet lives—as long as he is read, you see.
No need for words: just read the simple rhyme,
And in the stillness, secrets will take form.
This is but one fine stroke in life's grand time—
So feel it all, and let your heart be warm.
The poet is an artist, so they say—
He sees the world with a heart open wide.
He chose the path that leads to stars away,
But to this earthly life, the door is shut inside.
