To a hunter from the city,
Overtaken by the night,
Spake, in tones of tender pity
For himself, an aged wight:
“I have found the world a fountain
Of deceit and Life a sham.
I have taken to the mountain
And a Holy Hermit am.
“Sternly bent on Contemplation,
Far apart from human kind—
In the hill my habitation,
In the Infinite my mind.
“Ten long years I’ve lived a dumb thing,
Growing bald and bent with dole,
Vainly seeking for a Something
To engage my gloomy soul.
“Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you
Eat, and quaff my simple drink,
Please suggest whatever suits you
As a Theme for me to Think.”
Then the hunter answered gravely:
“From distraction free, and strife,
You could ponder very bravely
On the Vanity of Life.”
“O, thou wise and learned Teacher,
You have solved the Problem well—
You have saved a grateful creature
From the agonies of Hell.
“Take another root, another
Cup of water: eat and drink.
Now I have a Subject, brother,
Tell me what, and how, to think.”