When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a 'formal cut,'--
There is a place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stires and glows,
And the young year draws to the 'golden prime,'
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!