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White, clean white, paper,

On the mat, a dirty mat,

And Plato a thinking cat,

Impatient for another supper,

Points out the hand-writing,

Familiar since that year

Of that silently shed tear

On my father life-departing.

“Plato”, I said, “So long ago,

And still life’s river flows

In spring suns and winter snows,

True love will always grow.”

“Let’s have a little meal”,

Says Plato, “Just you and I,

As we watch the summer die,

And that love forever seal.”


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