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.
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