There's a pleasant port where a boy fixed his courseOn a lesser-trodden landscape northAnd on his journey boreal met one corporealOne returning journey forth“What draws you to the barren there,†he said“That land is nothing but dampen dreadAnd sour berries, and rotten cherriesAnd icy rime and that snowy, snowy pineThat bleak, bare lawn is woebegoneBut carry, carry, carry onâ€â€œOh no,†he said “You must have misunderstoodIt's not the land's comestible goodsNot the berry that I seekBut the way it hangs on the arrow woodAnd I am not after that snowy shawlBut the way the faint flakes float and fallAnd to me that alabaster milky rimeIs as sweet as sugar and just as fineAnd I don't care one bit that the pines are goneBut I do care what they look like at dawnI'm not concerned that their life is drawnBut what happens to the land without their brawn.â€And so his journey goes, though his story's oldBut a tale is not trite if it's still being told
