A Twice-Found Poem

I found this poem the other day while cleaning out a garage:


      Strange Things


Ownership is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me,
Declaiming there, they claim the air
      And call it property—
A realm of sand, a piece of land,
      Made of vanity.
Yes, ownership’s a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.


A Soul-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me,
To say that hearts can never part
      Conceals fragility.
I see my love in clouds above
      For eternity.
Yes, a Soul-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.


A Truth-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.
To say you know, but yet the snow
      Is growing silently,
And in the Tar a single star—
      Blinking frostily.
Yes, a truth-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.

That was the whole poem—but there was another verse written below it in a different hand:


We found theses sheets a-mouldering
      In a book from the library.
We think him lost and these the cost
      Of idiosyncracy.
We laughed aloud and disavowed
      Such eccentricity—
The things he scorns are Great Things!
      Great Things—we all agree!