Light streams through the dustly pane-
Reflects off silver hair-
And spectacles with silver frames-
And books about his chair.
There's Berkley, Locke, and maybe Hume-
And look there's Socrates!
And Plutarch's "Lives", he oft consumes-
What better fare than these?
And what is that my eyes espy?
There! Almost out of sight?
My word! Why! It's a steno pad-
In which he used to write.
We'll take a peek while he's asleep-
And see what it contains...
No doubt his thoughts on subjects deep
With candor he maintains.
Ah...What is this? Why, it's a verse-
And written to a girl!
So sweet, so tender, so intense-
I feel quite like a churl.
To so invade his private life-
Desire to know remains-
I turn another page and find-
A verse on Tamerlane!
Tamerlane? Why, who is that?
In ignorance you yawn...
He was the chief of Mongol hordes
Men know as Genghis Khan.
Of things that he can see-
How they are and how they aren't
And how they ought to be.
But wait! I think he's stirring now-
We'd best be on our way-
And not disturb the Scholar,
As he begins his day.