Classic Poem

“So careful of the Type she seems;”
She mends what Man so foully makes:
Searching for five minute misprints
In a forest of mistakes.

If I (in form) dictated this
You will agree, at any rate,
Some things are here which you believe
And I did not dictate.

As you were better than a friend
In more than friendship we agree—
Friendship at best may be a bond:
And Truth has made us free.

Who enters by that Door alone,
However, dubious or afraid
For that one hour is that one Mind
For which the world was made . . .

. . . So let them blare . . . creed, rack and rod,
Torture and Torquemada's chain . . .
. . . That was the hour when souls were free
That now are friends again.