Classic Poem

If, my Doris, I should find,
That you seem the least inclined
To explore the depths of Mind,
Or of Art, —
Should such fancies ever wake,
Understand, without mistake,
Though our hearts (perhaps) might break, —
We must part

I'd as soon your little head
Should be lumbered up with lead,
As with learning, live or dead,
And with brains;
I have really doted less
On its outline, I confess,
Than the charming Nothingness
It contains.

No, suppose by hook or crook
People try to make you look
At some tiresome crabbed book,
Mind you don't!
If they hint you ought to know
Sophocles or Cicero,
Bacon, Goethe, or Rousseau,
Say " I won't! "

Do you think the summer rose
Ever cares or ever knows
By what law she buds and blows
On the stem?
If the peaches on the wall
Must by gravitation fall,
Do you fancy it at all
Troubles them?

Then, as sun or rain is sent,
And the golden hours are spent,
Be unaskingly content
As a star:
Yes, be ever of the few
Neither critical nor blue,
But be just the perfect You
That you are!