Dead Poets Society

In a musty attic
I found a poem
Written 100 years ago
By a young girl,
Long dead:

Short is the day
Of the loving heart.
It read.

And you,
Standing in your
Musty attic,
Reading this poem
Written 100 years ago
By an old man,
Long dead:

Long is the night
Of the grieving heart
I said.

Please know
That in a place
Of lavender and nightingales
Where angels walk in daylight,
A young girl is writing a poem:

Short is the life
Of the loving heart
She writes.

She sits beside
Perpetual streams
Sailing lilies
On the waters.

She is sublime
In her meditations.
Her golden wings
Enfold me now.