I never met another half as kind
As he who stoops to warm the waking world
When at his touch, fruit brightens on the vine,
And flowers stretch with happy leaves uncurled.
He traced for me the history of man,
For nothing new escapes his steady sight
I spoke of dreams, but soon let silence stand,
Contented to be lost within his light.
That evening I pursued him as he turned
And tried in vain to catch him by the hand
Imagining that I would rather burn
Than be bereft of him when darkness lands
But Fate would have me peer through bars of gold,
Compelled to always reach, but never hold.