"How old art thou?" said the garrulous gourd, As o'er the palm-tree's crest it poured Its spreading leaves and tendrils fine, And hung a bloom in the morning shine. "A hundred years!" the palm-tree sighed: "And @3I@1," the saucy gourd replied, "Am at the most a hundred hours, And overtop thee in the bowers!" Through all the palm-tree's leaves there went A tremor as of self-content. "I live my life," it whispering said, "See what I see, and count the dead; And every year, of all I've known, A gourd above my head has grown, And made a boast, like thine to-day; Yet here @3I@1 stand — but where are @3they@1?" |