Classic Poem

Once, long ago, a friend gave me a book
—Of poems—gems, the fruit of many minds;
I read them, thoughtless of the toil they took—
—The words moved softly as a stream that winds.

But now I know the lines I glibly read
—Perhaps were born of pain—a broken heart;
Regret that followed with its stealthy tread—
—The arrow of remorse with searching dart.

For wisdom comes with time's stern tutelage;
—The years are keys, unlocking many a door;
And sometimes as I read mist blurs the page,
—Here soul meets soul, a precious golden store.

Once, long ago, a friend gave me a book
—Of poems—gems, the fruit of many minds;
I read them, thoughtless of the toil they took—
—The words moved softly as a stream that winds.

But now I know the lines I glibly read
—Perhaps were born of pain—a broken heart;
Regret that followed with its stealthy tread—
—The arrow of remorse with searching dart.

For wisdom comes with time's stern tutelage;
—The years are keys, unlocking many a door;
And sometimes as I read mist blurs the page,
—Here soul meets soul, a precious golden store.