I sat upon a window-seat.
“Sit here.” I squatted at his feet.
“I could not see you for the light.”
Sun shone that day with solstice might.
At the feet of the master, I
was held, eye by glistening eye.
Seventy-five spoke; twenty-five
listened; poetry came alive:
“The thinking heart; the feeling mind.”
“Delight and wisdom.” All in kind.
Flown, fifty-five years—flown, not lost,
that afternoon with Robert Frost.
