Once, long ago, a friend gave me a book
of Poems–gems, the fruit of many minds;
I read them, thoughtless of the toil they took
The words moved softly as a stream that winds.
But now I know the lines I glibly read
Perhaps were born of pain-a broken heart;
Regret that followed with its stealthy tread
The arrow of remorse with searching dart.
For wisdom comes with time’s stern tutelage;
The years are keys, unlocking many a door;
And sometimes as I read mist blurs the page,
Here soul meets soul, a precious golden store.
Margaret E. Bruner