A poem can move, can calm can thrill,
Its lines can guide, help to decide,
Much more beside, yet still,
At times, its words unwind
And leave their many powers behind
And wander where they will.
In countless ways a poem has soul,
Its meanings change, it’s not that strange:
Its readers range, each role
A brave new part to play,
The poem has fresh things to stay,
Each thought a compact whole.