Classic Poem

I stopped to watch the world go past,
And found a poem upon the grass.
"Pick me up!" it called to me,
In words of prose and poetry.

I picked it up and held it fast.
"At last!" it cried, "At last, at last!
A bosom close to hold to me,
And share its store of misery."

My fingers clutched this simple toy,
And spirit filled with boundless joy,
As I observed the human race,
Go past at such a frantic pace.

"Take me to the shining sea,
That I may rhyme more prettily,
And catch the muse of setting sun--"
The poem begged, and made me run.

I hastened after sea and sun,
But wondered where could be the fun,
Of rhyming in a better way,
Tomorrow than in yesterday.

"To the forest!" cried the poem,
"I'll make you feel right at home!"
But all I felt was just the breeze,
As I collapsed beneath the trees.

"It's no use running anyhow,"
I said, "You rhyme no better now."
"Then leave," it sighed, "me on the grass,
To call to those who hurry past..."