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More than
halfway up the pass
Was a spring with a broken
drinking glass,
And whether the farmer drank or not
His mare was sure to observe the spot
By cramping the
wheel on a water-bar,
turning her forehead with a
star,
And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;
To which the farmer would make reply,
'A sigh for
every so many breath,
And for every so many sigh a
death.
That's what I always tell my wife
Is the
multiplication table of life.'
The saying may be ever
so true;
But it's just the kind of a thing that you
Nor I, nor nobody else may say,
Unless our purpose is
doing harm,
And then I know of no better way
To
close a road, abandon a farm,
Reduce the births of
the human race,
And bring back nature in people's
place.
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