To a Zealous Teacher
The books can wait; spare him this interval.
Spring states her current problems which combine
Fragments and phrases of the big design—
The umbrella-mender’s plaintive minor call
Like Pan in Moorish exile, the first small
Metallic song of frogs where waters shine
Between the rushes, and the pungent wine
That April pours when white syringas fall.
Who will interpret these for him? Will you
Define what greatness is, and catalogue
The final furious hour of Waterloo,
Young Newton’s apple, or Galvani’s frog?
Let him lie staring at nothing under a tree,
Or fly his kite . . . oh, leave all dreamers be!