The Poet
The poet is a dreamer, he may be a clown, With flutter of light wings, and steps of the brown, With visions and hopes in a whispering sound.
He chants to the stars, and to bubbling brooks, Of great vales of laughter, of golden books; And soft, airy musings, as minutes come round.
Yet he, too, laughs, and smiles, by night and by day; And though shadows may darken his heart on the way, He croons his best melodies and flows.
No quilt of dreams can cover him whole; But the deepest of springs does dance in his soul; And he calls to the heavens with pure, noble hope.
- Paul Laurence Dunbar