The rain is dripping from the trees.
I think myself a solemn sage
Who breathes his wisdom on the breeze.

Thought is my work, and thought my wage.
The teapot holds a triple view,
And suddenly I come of age.

These peaceful moments are too few,
When pyramids stand still and sane;
Friend, I know you feel it too.

Where are you, in this solemn rain?
I hope you sail on quiet seas,
As I walk on my wooded plain.