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Dear, “if you read these lines remember not
the hand that writ”, by Destiny propelled,
for many venture, most are soon forgot,
by Chance or choice to Lethe swift expelled.
The moving finger, spellbound, writes, impelled
to tell the world, - its jealous eyes to dot, -
of one whose talents true cannot be spelled,
all else is shadow, bolt – Time flies – soon shot.
“Age cannot wither, nor can custom stale
her infinite” unique, – both vain and sot
is who would dare to circumscribe her tale.
All praise is superficial and must fail
to sway the heart which on Love’s wind would sail.
© Jonathan Robin Poem written 26 April 1989
Jonathan ROBIN
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