Classic Poem

A bulrush stood on a river's rim,
And an oak that grew near by
Looked down with cold bauteur on him,
And addressed him this way: " Hi! "
The rush was a proud patrician, and
He retorted, " Don't you know,
What the veriest boor should understand,
That " Hi" is low? "

This cutting rebuke the oak ignored.
He returned, " My slender friend,
I will frankly state that I'm somewhat bored
With the way you bow and bend. "
" But you quite forget, " the rush replied,
" It's an art these bows to do,
An art I wouldn't attempt if I'd
Such boughs as you. "

" Of course, " said the oak, " in my sapling days
My habit it was to bow,
But the wildest storm that the winds could raise
Would never disturb me now.
I challenge the breeze to make me bend,
And the blast to make me sway. "
The shrewd little bulrush answered, " Friend,
Don't get so gay. "

And the words had barely left his mouth
When he saw the oak turn pale,
For, racing along south-east-by-south,
Came ripping a raging gale.
And the rush bent low as the storm went past,
But stiffly stood the oak,
Though not for long, for he found the blast
No idle joke.

*****

Imagine the lightning's gleaming bars,
Imagine the thunder's roar,
For that is exactly what eight stars
Are set in a row here for!
The oak lay prone when the storm was done,
While the-rush, still quite erect,
Remarked aside, " What under the sun
Could one expect? "

And THE MORAL , I'd have you understand,
Would have made La Fontaine blush,
For it's this: Some storms come early, and
Avoid the rush!