Pre-festival old professor
That time of year for him again comes round
when stout perennials spring up in the room,
like phone calls from old friends he can't put down,
Bevington, Riverside, Folger and Bloom.
Carves cipher in margins at umpteenth view
As silent music strikes up and scenes sing,
Or some old rogue's voice sparks delight anew:
the moor, fat jack, sweet prince, false thane, ripe king.
But why traverse so late this old bard's map?
The daily stone now rolls so slow uphill,
he goes gentle to that afternoon nap,
and defense prescribes an army of pills.
While head knows Frost was right, nothing gold stays,
heart trusts Holly's truth - love's real, not fade away.