| Oh, would that working I might shun, From labour my connection sever, That I might do a bit—or none Whatever! That I might wander over hills, Establish friendship with a daisy, O'er pretty things like daffodils Go crazy! That I might at the heavens gaze, Concern myself with nothing weighty, Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days— Or eighty. Why can't I cease a slave to be, And taste existence beatific On some fair island, hid in the Pacific? Instead of sitting at a desk 'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking— Oh, say, what is there picturesque In working? But no!—to loaf were misery!— I love to work! Hang isles of coral! (To end this otherwise would be Immoral!) Thomas R. Ybarra. |
