Fashion is a foolish watcher posted at the tree of knowledge,
Who plucketh its unripe fruit to pelt away the birds;
But, for its golden apples,—they dry upon the boughs,
And few have the courage or the wisdom to eat in spite of fashion.
One while, the fever is to learn, what none will be wiser for knowing,
Exploded errors in extinct tongues, and occasions for their use are small;
And the bright morning of life, for years of misspent time,
Wasted in following sounds, hath tracked up little sense,
Till at noon a man is thrown upon the world, with a mind expert in trifles,
Having yet everything to learn that can make him good or useful: