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.