The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley in ten volumes |
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THE POOR STUDENT |
 | The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley |  |
2242
THE POOR STUDENT
With song elate we celebrate
The struggling Student wight,
Who seeketh still to pack his pate
With treasures erudite;
Who keepeth guard and watch and ward
O'er every hour of day,
Nor less to slight the hours of night,
He watchful is alway.
The struggling Student wight,
Who seeketh still to pack his pate
With treasures erudite;
Who keepeth guard and watch and ward
O'er every hour of day,
Nor less to slight the hours of night,
He watchful is alway.
Though poor in pence, a wealth of sense
He storeth in excess—
With poverty in opulence,
His needs wax never less.
His goods are few,—a shelf or two
Of classics, and a chair—
A banjo—with a bird's-eye view
Of back-lots everywhere.
He storeth in excess—
With poverty in opulence,
His needs wax never less.
His goods are few,—a shelf or two
Of classics, and a chair—
A banjo—with a bird's-eye view
Of back-lots everywhere.
In midnight gloom, shut in his room,
His vigils he protracts,
E'en to the morning's hectic bloom,
Accumulating facts:
And yet, despite or wrong or right,
He nurtureth a ban,—
He hath the stanchless appetite
Of any hirèd man.
His vigils he protracts,
E'en to the morning's hectic bloom,
Accumulating facts:
2243
He nurtureth a ban,—
He hath the stanchless appetite
Of any hirèd man.
On Jason's fleece and storied Greece
He feeds his hungry mind;
Then stuffs himself like a valise
With “eats” of any kind:
With kings he feigns he feasts, and drains
The wines of ages gone—
Then husks a herring's cold remains
And turns the hydrant on.
He feeds his hungry mind;
Then stuffs himself like a valise
With “eats” of any kind:
With kings he feigns he feasts, and drains
The wines of ages gone—
Then husks a herring's cold remains
And turns the hydrant on.
In Trojan mail he fronts the gale
Of ancient battle-rout,
When, 'las the hour! his pipe must fail,
And his last “snipe” smush out—
Nor pauses he, unless it be
To quote some cryptic scroll
And poise a sardine pensively
O'er his immortal soul.
Of ancient battle-rout,
When, 'las the hour! his pipe must fail,
And his last “snipe” smush out—
Nor pauses he, unless it be
To quote some cryptic scroll
And poise a sardine pensively
O'er his immortal soul.
| The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley | |