Some people love their souls to ease
By thinking of the chimpanzees,
Of boa-constrictors and such cusses,
Or oblong hippopotamuses,
Of whales or crocodiles or gnus,
Giraffes and cows and caribous,
Or (if they have a turn for fun)
Of dinosaur or mastodon,
And pterodactyl and those classic
Monsters of the old Jurassic.
'Twas Asshur-bani-pal who said,
— Men's tastes will differ till they're dead. —
You all recall how Aristotle
Preferred the fish that's known as cuttle,
While the great sculptor Scopas says,
— My choice shall be octopuses. —
And Poggio Bracciolini flew
Into a passion when they slew
The egg his favorite emu
Had laid with cackle of alarum
Behind Liber Facetiarum.
Some people love such beasts as these;
But I — without apologies —
I love the Ephemerides.
And having now admitted this,
I'll mention an Ephemeris
That one bright summer morn I spied
When sitting by Mendota's side.
A half-transparent drop of jelly,
With filaments upon its belly,
It skimmed along the surface lightly,
Nor plunged beneath it reconditely,
Like some more bold investigator —
For instance, loon or alligator —
And then 'twould spread its wings and fare —
A-going up, child, in the air,
It knew not how, it cared not where,
Till it collapsed, a bug, a bubble —
Not having caused me any trouble,
And certainly not having done
The slightest good beneath the sun.
Why do I love such bugs as these
Sportive Ephemerides? —
Because I like to see them frolic? —
O no; because:


MORAL

They're so symbolic!