We were three weeks
Into term, Sheila,
When you came
Through the classroom door;
Forty-four children
Bent over books,
Copying Roethkes
The Lost Son.
You wrote your
First poem on the Moses
Of Michelangelo.
Words cut like stone.
I taught you Greek
But your painting of
The Essence of the Rose
Was pure Platonic form.
You drew the masks
Of Comedy and Tragedy
In perfect harmony.
Having seen neither;
So Socrates was right.
Those who have the Spirits gift
Will one day find the light.
