A Poet True

If I had wings and poet’s skill,

a muse at hand and time to kill,

I’d scribe for you such noble verses

about the beauty Nature nurses

inside a bud, on bough with leaf,

where wonderful is the motif.

I’d take my pen, like Bard with quill,

pour forth a stream, sublime and still.

Place pleasant poem on the pages:

a song of love that never ages,

as old as moon and starry host,

or sea that creeps along the coast.

If I could be the dew at dawn,

lay down like jewels on leafy lawn,

I’d sparkle with the Muse’s magic,

rewrite those rhymes of truth so tragic.

Have Hector and Achilles yield,

bid both lay down their sword and shield.

If I composed like kindly Keats,

laid lines where earth and heaven meets,

my poems would be less pedantic;

they’d bloom like rustic rose romantic.

Then I would be a poet true

and maybe touch the  heart of you.