Turn, o soul, into a child
and sneak gently on the sly
through the maize with tufted tessels
to feel once again elated.
Gather letters, books and feather,
give them all as alms together
to a student that is new,
so that he may struggle too.
Thought won't steal again your poise
through the forest and the copse
while the echoing of words
mocks and lies to you for worse.
When your sorrows make you sulk
Drop their sense and that whole bulk.
Added by: vasysm
see more poems written by: Tudor Arghezi