Tired Muse, put faded roses on thy brow,
Put thy bare arms about the harp, and sing:
—I am a little bor'd with everything.
Past the clos'd jalousies the mlengkas go;
They are not beautiful; no Greek they know;
They go about and howl and make a fuss;
I gaze through sâd-shap'd eyelids languorous,
Far off from Ispahân where roses blow.
Professors sit on lofty stools upcurl'd,
Through Yankee noses drooling all day long;
I find all these things quite ridiculous.
Before despis'd old age comes over us,
Let us step into the great world ere long.
We shall be very grand in the great world!