Classic Poem

When I behold night's tapestry of stars,
And with a glass pick up its glowing pattern,
When I look on the ruddy mask of Mars
And on the pale ring-circled ball of Saturn;

When I reflect that Earth is but a drop
In the tremendous bucket of the universe,
It gives me pause: I am constrained to stop
And estimate the value of my puny verse.

Is there, I ask, in all this mundane sphere
(The phrase is old, but for the rime essential)
Aught more inane than what is printed here,
More immaterial, inconsequential?

Is there in all the universe, I ask
Myself in accents kind of sad and solemn,
A thing less vital than my daily task,
A thing of less account than this here Column?

YES! There is one thing one step nearer nil,
A thing more pointless, witless, dull, excuseless:
The opinion of the gentlemen who spill
Good ink to write me that this Col is useless.