ltering the colour and confusion
Is he who casts word spells with profusion.
One has to laugh with the old magician
Who shows no sign of subdued contrition.
He has sat on one venerable stump
With children at his feet in a large clump
Telling stories long into the dark cold night
Of demons and kings, until early light.
He wears no trace of calm propriety
And has no respect for sobriety.
His eyes have grown dim and lost their luster
But his words form a shining star cluster.
And the floating opulence he creates
Distracts the soul from that which irritates.
Those that find his stories true demand
Listen attentively and understand
That although life is a very long time
It takes but two points to create a line.
And although each point may be heard as sound
It takes five senses for a line to be found.
And with the warm weather he has vanished
But his choice words of life are not banished.
I have seen him on his way to the moon
Whispering, Whispering: too soon, too soon.