To R.F.F.

Dear F—, though rustic born and bred,
I scratched a sceptic's puzzled head
On lately hearing you decree
The great "to be or not to be."
Nothing, I'll own, can please me more
Than gleaning grapes from Pallas' store;
But when ill Fortune tends the vine—
You feed on yours; I'll feed on mine.

It pained me, too, to hear you're more
Concerned to view the recent war
As some proscription, magnified,
With equal blame on either side.
It's well, since people are so dense,
To climb the other fellow's fence;
But when the structure gets too fine—
You sit on yours; I'll sit on mine.

Though I'll confess I've given heed
And thought to your agnostic creed,
If it can bring you happiness,
I'm sure I wish you all success.
If that's the hope you have in store—
To live, to die, and nothing more—
If that's the end your stars assign—
You go to yours; I'll go to mine.

—D.J.D.