The poet

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The poet is the loneliest man that lives.Ah me,God makes him so,the sea hath its ebb and flow,he sings his songs-but yet he only gives in the waves of the words of his art only the"foam" of his heart. Its sea rolls on forevre,evenmore,butiful,vast and deep;Only his "shallowest" thoughts touch the shore of speech,His "deepest" sleep. The foam that crests the wave is pure and white. The"foam" is not the "wave".The 'Wave" is not the sea--It"rolls" forever on;The winding shores will crave A kiss from evry wavelet on the deep,some "come",some always "sleep".