Classic Poem

He loved peculiar plants and rare,
For any plant he did not care
That he had seen before;
Primroses by the river's brim
Dicotyledons were to him,
And they were nothing more.

The mighty cliffs we bade him scan,
He banned them for Laurentian,
With sad, dejected mien.
" Than all this bleak Azoic rock,"
He said, " I'd sooner have a block —
Ah me! — of Pleistocene!"

His eyes were bent upon the sand;
He owned the scenery was grand,
In a reproachful voice;
But if a centipede he found,
He'd fall before it on the ground,
And worship and rejoice.

We spoke of Poets dead and gone,
Of that Maeonian who shone
O'er Hellas like a star:
We talked about the King of Men, —
" Observe," he said, " the force of ╬║╬Á╬¢
And note the use of ╬│╬▒¤ü!"

Yes, all that has been or may be,
States, beauties, battles, land, and sea,
The matin songs of larks,
With glacier, earthquake, avalanche,
To him were each a separate " branch,"
And stuff for scoring marks!

Ah! happier he who does not know
The power that makes the Planets go,
The slaves of Kepler's Laws;
Who finds not glands in joy or grief,
Nor, in the blossom and the leaf,
Seeks for the secret Cause!