To Sean Safranski
by Timothy Murphy
I write to you in sorrow
for the students I must reach,
reciting Yeats tomorrow,
my red head called to teach.
Many times at your school
I’ve risen at your lecterns,
the lutenist, the fool,
the seven strings, the plectrums.
I see those students’ eyes
glowing, about to burn,
wild with a mad surmise.
The old? We too can learn.
