The Golden Child

Art is a father, of many a child

Some soft and gentle, some strange and some wild.

Loudly they played, music and dance

Painting and drawing, always in a trance

Sculpture and photography, pleasure to the sight

And there by the window, she sat in the light

Her name was poetry; her tongue was spun of gold

 And when she stood and spoke,

Her words were always bold.

She always knew when, how and what to say.

Poetry had power, poetry had sway.

All her brothers and sisters, loved to hear her speak,

Her rhymes penned in Latin, her wisdom truly Greek.

With eloquence and grace she could make them smile,

Make them think, make them laugh, even weep for a while.

Poetry knew exactly, how powerful she was,

For even in her silence, she drew their in applause.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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