Lost Muse

Today for the first time, I heard the old poets voice, Reading once more, and forever, his treasure; Heard each syllable fall lightly at the end His voice deep and sinuous; a human Perception trailing the frailty of his words He spoke again; but what I heard inside of it Was a faltering soul, weary but still heartened by his Hard won song, words set down to the meter of his beating heart, behind which, he could not see me from where he was Could not fathom that some day I'd be watching Through the incalculable squalor and mystery Of times intervening years; would not, No; never know how much I loved his writing, and how I followed along his every word, As if it were my own course, My own offering; and if once Only, I could return there I would point him in The direction of Heaven and follow along behind him and his proud, brave quavering voice