Goat Song

Through weeks of clean Atlantic weather
The two kids played all day together,
And though they are but symbols here
Their names may just as well appear.
White " Billy Buttery " was one,
And " Betsy Brown " his sister,
Two baby goats, and they were dear
To their own mother grazing near,
And they cried when they missed her.

You'd think that such a foolish noise
Would be the kind that just annoys —
And we tried not to listen —
But there was something in the tone
That made the wisest feel alone,
And sorry for existin'.

That much there was in common, then,
Still — they were goats and we were men —
Both quite unlike each other,
So what it was that spanned our ken
Was something to discover.

Just what that " spanner " was obsessed
My giddy intellect, I'm blest,
If I knew more than you, man!
No answer came; the goats addressed
Themselves to gamboling and incest,
And that, of course, was human.

That turned the laugh, but not the key,
Still there was something kept from me;
Yet I was left to wonder,
On problems that I might suspect
The scientific intellect
Is scarcely like to blunder.

For chance it was in " Spike, " the dog,
That cleared my problem of its fog
(He used no logarithms)
Yet he was able to detect
What might escape your intellect
By his own doggy rhythms.

The time had come to separate
The kids from that delicious state
On which most kids have thriven;
Soon they were tethered to a stake,
Where martyr-like they met their fate,
Bleating to helpless heaven.

O St. Bartholomew! what " bahs " !
What human syllables, what " ma's! "
The dog set up a whining!
And much to my august surprise
The tears ran down out of my eyes,
And needed no defining.

You see we all were on one isle,
The goats, the dog, and I — you smile —
But there we were, and mile on mile
Of nerveless stuff about us;
The huge Atlantic on the bars
Moaned to the vaster sea of stars,
The very winds would flout us.

I simply mean we were on earth
And that's no moving cause for mirth,
Unless you're father antic.
And if you are, don't laugh at me;
Go laugh with the Atlantic.

You'll find your little motion
Is tabled by the ocean,
And no one in the ceiling
Will palpitate with feeling .