Thursday, October 9, 2014

A Whisper yet Unheard

A poem is like an early rose
Before the bloom has come,
Or the crawling caterpillar
That the butterfly is from.

A poem is like new sherry
Before ageing makes it sweet,
Or the passion of two lovers
Yet to meet.

When a poet writes a poem
He creates it word by word,
But until its read by one who cares
It’s but a whisper yet unheard.

And though a poem can live forever,
A book may be its tomb,
For though the poet plants the seed,
Only you can make it bloom.


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