THE
SCEPTICS
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| IT was
the little leaves beside the road.
Said Grass, "What is that sound
So dismally profound,
That detonates and desolates the air?"
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5 |
"That
is St. Peter’s bell,"
Said rain-wise Pimpernel;
"He is music to the godly,
Though to us he sounds so oddly,
And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer." |
10 |
Then something very like a groan
Escaped the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass, "And whither track
These creatures all in black,
So woebegone and penitent and meek?"
|
15 |
"They’re
mortals bound for church,"
Said the little Silver Birch;
"They hope to get to heaven
And have their sins forgiven,
If they talk to God about it once a week." |
20 |
And something very like a smile
Ran through the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass, "What is that noise
That startles and destroys
Our blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?"
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25 |
"That’s
folk a-praising God,"
Said the tough old cynic Clod;
"They do it every Sunday,
They’ll be all right on Monday;
It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired." |
30 |
And laughter spread among the little leaves. |
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