The Poem Lying on the Grass

I stopped to watch the world go past,

And found a poem upon the grass.

"Pick me up!" it called to me,

In words of prose and poetry.

I picked it up and held it fast.

"At last!" it cried, "At last, at last!

A bosom close to hold to me,

And share its store of misery.

"My fingers clutched this simple toy,

And spirit filled with boundless joy,

As I observed the human race,

Go past at such a frantic pace.

"Take me to the shining sea,

That I may rhyme more prettily,

And catch the muse of setting sun--"

The poem begged, and made me run.

I hastened after sea and sun,

But wondered where could be the fun,

Of rhyming in a better way,

Tomorrow than in yesterday.

"To the forest!" cried the poem,

"I'll make you feel right at home!"

But all I felt was just the breeze,

As I collapsed beneath the trees.

"It's no use running anyhow,"I said,

"You rhyme no better now."

"Then leave," it sighed, "me on the grass,

To call to those who hurry past..."