Classic Poem

A HERMIT thrush sings overhead;
He does not hear its liquid song.
The trees are splashed with gold and red;
He cares not as he speeds along.
He sees no stream nor rippling brook,
No purple hills, nor pine trees tossing.
But buried deeply in his book,
He reads: “Turn left at R. R. crossing.”

The fields are ripe with golden grain;
He passes by it all unheeding.
Through open road and leafy lane
He sits absorbed in what he's reading.
Beside him swathed in heavy veils
Reclines his placid, portly madam.
She's buried deep in Snippy Tales;
He reads: “Bear left on smooth macadam.”

For him the clover-scented meads,
The streams that wind through hill and hollow,
The rustic scenes through which he speeds
Are but direction marks to follow.
The charm of field and wood and sky
With scorn he leaves to those who need it.
He has his book. I wonder why
He doesn't stay at home and read it.