Classic Poem

You know, my dear Tom, that the objects we see,
Are not, on the whole, what we take 'em to be;
And that colour, shape, surface, are modifications,
At least more or less, of our purblind sensations.
A set now of needles, like certain smooth souls,
Are as rough, on inspection, as old iron poles;
The sun, to us dim little critics, Lord love us!
Seems hardly worth measuring, he 's so much above us;
And mountains, like lovers, whatever their hue,
When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue

The thing is notorious. Nay, as for that matter,
To talk about colour is only to chatter;
For like a complexion put on for the night,
'Tis all but a business of optics and light;
And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to —
Are just, in the dark, — like the girl they belong to.

This truth, though it 's stale to the present deep age,
Had once such effect on a good mitred sage,
That mistrusting those brilliant deceivers the eyes,
He resolved to put faith in no sort of disguise;
And (how he contrived, I don't know, with St. Paul)
Concluded there really was nothing at all.
Friends, pictures, books, gardens, like things in romances
To him were but fictions, — agreeable fancies;
And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches,
Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes,
Did he cry, " A thought strikes me", you turned round to know
What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot;
Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead,
'Twas a painful idea had got into your head;
And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean,
He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.