SONG OF THE BOOKWORM
Who would long for wings to wander
Over sea or mountains yonder?
Who would hang on risky pinion,
And become the breezes’ minion,
When the spirit, birdlike, hovers,
Borne between two leathern covers?
These are wings a fay might sigh for,
Or a chubby cherub cry for!
So the dusty Bookworm quivers
Into life; the cocoon shivers,
Bursts into a world of glory,
Borne on tinted wings of story,
Poesy, romance or fairy—
Wings of book-leaves thin and airy;
Floats and flutters off, away,
To Avonside or far Cathay.
There is no land so strange, so far,
From pole to pole, from star to star,
But he may visit passage free,
No duty, fare or grudging fee.
Hey for Egypt! Ho for Arden!
Mowgli’s jungle, Omar’s garden!
None shall limit, none can stay,
When the Bookworm flits away!