Classic Poem

Before her supper where she sits
—With every favored toe she plays,
Singing whatever ballad fits
—The past romances of her days.

The dusk comes softly to her room,
—The night winds in the branches stir;
That nations battle to their doom
—Across the seas, is naught to her.

For what she does not know, she eats,
—A worm, a twig, a block, a fly,
And every novel thing she meets
—Is bitten into bye and bye.

She, from the blankets of her bed,
—Holds no opinion on the war,
But munches on her thumb instead,
—This being what a thumb is for.

The troubles that invade the day,
—On some remote to-morrow creep;
Comes Bertha with the supper tray,
—And—now I laymen down ee beep.