The Poet, The Oyster, And Sensitive Plant.
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:
Ah, hapless wretch! condemnd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordaind to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough:
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied
(When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants calld sensitive grow there?
No ...