The Gift

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.