Classic Poem

You tell me that you write only a little now.
I wrote this a year or two ago
about a girl whose stories I had read and wished to meet:
The traveller
whom a bird's notes surprise—
his eyes
search the trees.
And when I met her she was plain enough.
So is the nightingale, they say—
and I am glad that you do not belong
to those whose beauty is all song.