
The poem is ruined
by one part being too good,
the part in the middle, which leaves the reader stunned,
not left for the end,
as the one good part should.
It could be a line, "sung to a humble star,"
or love, or life, which should always be best at the end
as when the lover, less beautiful now, at last becomes a friend.
But was always a friend, and you realize this, at last,
the poem good all the way through
as if there were no such thing as the past.