All the daytime I belong
To the solemn-coated throng
Who with grave, stupendous looks
Study cash and ledger books,
Or who go,
Staid and slow,
On sad business to and fro.
But when twilight comes, I range
Over topics new and strange,
Wasting all my leisure hours
On fay birds and phantom flowers,
Or I sing
Some mad fling
Through the impish evening.
Yes, and when the moon goes by
Rocking in a foamy sky,
Then I swear I’m more akin
To the laughing Cherubin
Than to those grave men who go,
To and fro, to and fro,
On sad business to and fro.