Triolet: The Poet

A Poem

I don’t deny that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet.

—Innocent Smith, Chesterton, Manalive

The Poem

A Poet sits and dreams of things
While cobwebs grow about his ears
And angels drive their stars in rings.
A Poet sits and dreams of things,
He sits in trees, eats what birds sing,
Forgets the night ever held fear.
A Poet sits and dreams of things
While cobwebs grow about his ears.

Picture taken by Eliza Morris