Classic Poem

Through the city park goes a summer sigh,
As Poet Wennerbom, reeling by,
Comes from the poor-house, bottle in hand,
Warily tacks o'er the driveway sand,
Takes a swig the while,
Mumbles and smiles a maudlin smile.

Bees from the gardener's hive hum near,
Caterpillars are tumbling sheer
From the trees, which are all in fullest bloom
Filling the air with rich perfume.—
On the shady sward
The poet sits to drink like a lord.

Birds play tag with a merry twitter,
Hundreds of grasshoppers twang the zither,
Sourly Wennerbom hears the din.
While he gulps away at his wretched gin,—
Swills like a swine,—
The sun's bright beams on the bottle shine.

Poet and bottle commune in glee:
“Gin gives genius,” mumbles he;
“Gin gives comfort when hope is fled—
Here's to youth and the days long dead!
Let us drink it straight!
Time passes and we do; such is fate.

“I was happy in faith and noble in thought
Till I drowned in this hog-wash and came to nought.
I was done at fifteen. What then? Ho, Ho!
Come, brother bottle, all beauty must go.
Here's for a drunk!
Wennerbom's full, that gives him spunk!”

So he falls asleep and dreams at his ease;
Filtering through the compassionate trees,
The light falls on Poet Wennerbom,
And the chestnuts kindly rain down their bloom.
On the empty flask
A swarm of insects hurry or bask.

Rich and pure is his happiness:
His soul is tortured by no distress,
He feels not remorse for shame and sin,
To the dreamland of youth he has entered in;
He slumbers deep,—
'Tis well for the poet to fall asleep.