You will solve every riddle in Browning;
And learn how to paddle and swim;
And save other people from drowning;
And play basket ball in the gym.
But you'll scorn to know why there's a tax on
All reading that isn't a bore,
When Mallarme's filtered through Saxon
And the Symbolists come to the fore.
All winter you'll read mathematics
(Oh, you'll be a terrible "prod"),
And in June, at the Senior Dramatics,
You will play like a star. But it's odd,
Since you'll quote every cadence in Kipling
And Arnold (of course I mean Matt),
If you don't make a bard of some stripling
Before he knows where he is at.
I am sure you'll be lovely as Trilby,
The loveliest bud of the year;
But remember, Karlene, I shall still be
Your doting old godfather, dear.
When you hear Archimedes' conundrum,
Like enough you'll be wanting to try
Whether one little girl _contra mundum_
Can't lift the old thing with a pry!
You will turn up your nose at poor "Thy will,"
With a haughty agnostical sniff,
Till you find the imperative "I will"
Has a future conditional "if."
And then you will come to your senses,
And find out why women were made;
And men too; and why there are fences
All round the whole lot where you strayed,
While you wore yourself down to a shadow
Yet failed to discover your sphere;
For you'll see Adam down in the meadow
And think what a goosey you were!
And then when your classmates are singing
Once more for good-by the old glees,
And the round painted lanterns are swinging
And sputtering out in the trees,
When everything stales and withers
Except the great stars up above,
Your heartstrings will all go to smithers,
You'll just be one crumple of love.
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