CARE is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves?you know his sign!?
No day without its line. 

He writes with iron pen
Upon the brows of men;
Faint lines at first, and then
He scores them in again. 

His touch at first is light
On Beauty?s brow of white;
The old churl loves to write
On foreheads broad and bright. 

A line for young love crossed,
A line for fair hopes lost
In an untimely frost?
A line that means Thou Wast. 

Then deeper script appears:
The furrows of dim fears,
The traces of old tears,
The tide-marks of the years. 

To him with sight made strong
By suffering and wrong,
The brows of all the throng
Are eloquent with song.