Oh happy he who cannot see With scientific eyes; Who does not know how flowers grow, And is not planet wise; Content to find with simple mind Joys as they are: To whom a rose is just a rose, A star--a star.
It is not good, I deem, to brood On things beyond our ken; A rustic I would live and die, Aloof from learned men; And laugh and sing with zest of Spring In life's exultant scene,-- For vain my be philosophy, And what does meaning mean?
I'm talking rot,--I'm really not As dumb as I pretend; But happiness, I dimly guess, Is what counts in the end. To educate is to dilate The nerves of pain: So let us give up books and live Like hinds again.
The best of wisdom surely is To be not overwise; For may not thought be evil fraught, And truth less kind than lies? So let me praise the golden days I played a gay guitar, And deemed a rose was just a rose, A star--a star.