For The Bookman

by Benedict Duke

 

Winter's rains must ever pass,
Snowflakes' dazzles grace the grass
Where the white-thorn blossoms sting;
But for you no bird will sing.

Forests run through evergreen
Forests where the osprey preen
And the Monarch hosts take wing;
But for you no bird will sing.

Under starlight, under sun,
Luminescence blooms and hums;
Sea and stream and shallow ring;
But for you no bird will sing.

For the bookman only masters
Inward glances, awkward measures,
And is deaf to all such things.
Thus for you no bird will sing.