Classic Poem

A yeoman born, with patrimony small,
He held the world at large as his estate;
Found fit advices in the bugle's call
And took his part in iron-tongued debate
Where'er one sword another sword blade notched;
Ne'er was he slain, though often he was scotched,
Now down, now up, but always fronting fate.

At last a figure resolute, and grand
In arms he leaped upon Virginia's strand;
Fitted in many schools his course to steer
He knew the ax, the musketoon, and brand,
How to obey, and better to command;
First of his line he stood — a planted spear
The New World saw the English Pioneer!

Funny solemn little old gray owl,
perched beside me in this dreary cage:
If you and I could see
we could see the sun,
a bright yellow nut, so they say.

We can see the moon, you say,
but he's so gloomy, funny owl;
the dark, you say,
but he's so black.
We can see the stars, you say,
but they're so weary, funny owl;
the birds, you say,
but they're so sad.
The sun that we smell every day, funny owl,
a bright yellow nut, as they say —
If we could only see we might snatch him.

Do not nudge me, funny solemn little old gray owl,
don't be angry, I but ponder here beside you.
The moon, yes, the dark,
yes, the stars in our cage,
we ourselves, are real, are great.
But if you and I could see
we might eat the sun,
a bright yellow nut, so they say.