"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 stirs 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!"