Classic Poem

I

O ye that lie on the sandy beach,
With nothing whatever to do,
Beyond the beckoning, grasping reach
Of the city and all its crew —

II

There are pleasanter things in summertime
Than to coax the bashful laugh,
Than to build the lofty and careful rhyme,
And to prune a paragraph.

III

There are pleasanter things to do at night
Alluringer things by day,
Than to seek a subject on which to write
A merrily mirthsome lay.

IV

And so when it squeaks as I strike the strings,
And I long to be labour-free,
I just go and do those pleasanter things
I spoke of in II and III.