Classic Poem

With thee conversing I forget all time,
I'd sell my future for a wooden dime;
All seasons, and their change, — all please alike,
I wouldn't care if the sun had went on strike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
When I wake up I hear the tweet-tweet-tweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun —
Some little orb it is, I'll say so, son —
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His little old rays on the little old pansy beds —
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit and flower,
And when he shines at 5 or some such hour
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
And soft, believe me, as a lower berth,
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of five-star final extras, and — doggone! —
Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night
(You said a bookful, Jack. Silent is right)
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
Me with my uke, you singin' some swell tune
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
That'd be bad, I guess, me with my Jane.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
Spillin' around some extra dividends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun,
Wakin' me up about 4:41,
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Shinin' at dawn with 9o candle-power
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers
Nor slugs o' ruckus juice, nor whisky sours,
Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night
(I miss you, Tessie? Yop, with all my might)
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
(I'm cuckoo, kid, if I don't see you soon)
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet —
When you ain't here, I'm off the world. ... I'm beat.