It’s I live in a very wise Town,
As all wise people know:
They read, they write, they read all day
As orchard-trees do grow.
Said I,—I was a young thing then,
And a foolish young thing, too,—
‘I will not spend my little life thus;
There’s much I’d rather do.
‘For I would rather look at you
This way, with happy looks,
Than lose the stars from my two eyes
With poring over books.
‘I’d rather far be red and white
For stupid folks to see
Than write nine books for little dull worms
To eat them, leisurely.
‘And I would rather have it said
When all my days are through,
“O she was good to see and hear
And say Good-morning to!”
‘When learning makes you white and red
And fresh as west-winds blow,
I may spend sun and candle-light
To learn what they all know.
‘But O, the wise in this wise Town,
They have no longer prime.
And there are fewer wise men, now,
Than once upon a time!’