Jacques Barzun on The Lusiads (From Dawn to Decadence), and which translation to read:

While Tasso was garnering praise for his work, another poet in another southern land was composing a true epic. If the name of Camoëns and the tide Lusiads do not at once evoke recognition, the reason is again that of language: Portuguese is not widely read or studied outside its native limits in Europe and America. Camoëns chose a subject more factual than the paladins and had a more useful experience than the Italians for epic work. He was a soldier and sailor. He fought the Moors in north Africa, lost his right eye in battle and was invalided, re-enlisted to find adventure in the Indies, and there became an official in charge of a trading post. Accused of embezzlement and put in prison, he managed to get free and sail home. There, like everybody who could hold a pen, he wrote plays and sonnets and began the epic that made him the great national poet — indeed, a great poet tout court.

His subject was contemporary: the conquest of the ocean sea by the Portuguese. And his ostensible hero was a recent, historical character, Vasco da Gama. The actual hero is the Portuguese people, “the illustrious heart of Lusitania”; the name of the ancient Roman province that recurs in the title Lusiads. The adventures of the hero as man and people are the real and allegorical events of the explorer’s voyage home from the East. What there is of the marvelous in the incidents is due not to magic but to the well-known gods and goddesses of the ancients. Thus in the great episode of the Isle of Love, the domain of Venus, where the sailors take the Nereids, nymphs of the sea, as brides, Gama is the lover of their queen, Thetis, hitherto unattainable. Gama succeeds in his wooing after the repulsive giant Adamastor, typifying the enemies of the Portuguese, has failed. The union of godly beauty with human courage is to produce the future heroes of Portugal. In Greek mythology, when Thetis is subdued by Love, her offspring is the daundess Achilles.

This sample episode from The Lusiads is enough to show that it is a Humanist epic. Women other than goddesses play important parts in several of the main scenes. Among these is the story, told with lyrical tenderness, of Ines de Castro, the historical mistress of Prince Pedro of Portugal, whose close advisers compelled him to have her put to death. In tone and conception, the poem is equidistant from the popular ballad and the learned pastiche. Camoëns has been blamed for mixing the pagan myths with Christian, but it is standard Humanist practice. It is not sacrilege but spiritual synonymy. In The Lusiads the allegorical and the historical planes are traversed by physical action, told with unabating vigor and vivid detail. It came naturally to one who, though writing on terra firma, had spent many days on the deck of a ship. The fervor with which Camoëns celebrates the conquest, first of the sea by rounding the Cape of Storms at the tip of Africa, and then of the natives and the trade of the southeast Indies, makes his poem the first and last national epic — this at a time when the nations of the West were not so much made as in the making. The work withstands comparison with Virgil’s imperial Aeneid. Using a longer line than the Italians, Camoëns was able to achieve grandeur more easily, especially in the speeches. And he shares with the ancients and the writers of sagas something one might call epic pessimism. He is also considered Portugal’s greatest lyric poet, as well as the man whose writings fixed the Portuguese language.

Os Lusiadas has been translated four times into English, the latest version being in prose. [The one to read is Leonard Bacon’s, in verse.] But there is another means of access that is strongly recommended to anyone who knows Spanish: it is to study in a comparative grammar the forms that differ regularly in Spanish and Portuguese and then to plunge into the poem with a dictionary at hand.

Luís Vaz de Camões (1572)

As armas e os barões assinalados,
Que da ocidental praia Lusitana,
Por mares nunca de antes navegados,
Passaram ainda além da Taprobana,
Em perigos e guerras esforçados,
Mais do que prometia a força humana,
E entre gente remota edificaram
Novo Reino, que tanto sublimaram;

E também as memórias gloriosas
Daqueles Reis, que foram dilatando
A Fé, o Império, e as terras viciosas
De África e de Ásia andaram devastando;
E aqueles, que por obras valerosas
Se vão da lei da morte libertando;
Cantando espalharei por toda parte,
Se a tanto me ajudar o engenho e arte.

Richard Fanshawe (1655)

Armes, and the Men above the vulgar File,
Who from the Western Lusitanian shore
Past ev’n beyond the Trapobanian-Isle,
Through Seas which never Ship had sayld before;
Who (brave in action, patient in long Toyle,
Beyond what strength of humane nature bore.)
‘Mongst Nations, under other Stars, acquir’d
A modern Scepter which to Heaven aspir’d:

Likewise those Kings of glorious memory,
Who sow’d and propagated where they past
The Faith with the new Empire (making dry
The Breasts of Asia, and laying waste
Black Africk’s vitious Glebe); And Those who by
Their deeds at home left not their names defac’t,
My Song shall spread where ever there are Men,
If Wit and Art will so much guide my Pen.

William Julius Mickle (1776)

Arms and the Heroes, who from Lisbon’s shore,
Thro’ seas where sail was never spread before,
Beyond where Ceylon lifts her spicy breast,
And waves her woods above the wat’ry waste,
With prowess more than human forc’d their way
To the fair kingdoms of the rising day:
What wars they wag’d, what seas, what dangers pass’d,
What glorious empire crown’d their toils at last,
Vent’rous I sing, on soaring pinions borne,
And all my country’s wars the song adorn;
What kings, what heroes of my native land
Thunder’d on Asia’s and on Afric’s strand:
Illustrious shades, who levell’d in the dust
The idol-temples and the shrines of lust:
And where, erewhile, foul demons were rever’d,
To Holy Faith unnumber’d altars rear’d:
Illustrious names, with deathless laurels crown’d,
While time rolls on in every clime renown’d!

Thomas Moore Musgrave (1826)

Arms, and the heroes of illustrious fame,
Who, from the western Lusitanian shore,
Remote, unnavigated seas explor’d,
Far beyond Taprobana’s distant isle,
And, ‘midst the perils of advent’rous war,
With more than human constancy endur’d,
In eastern climes a mighty empire rais’d
And aggrandiz’d by great and glorious deeds:
The great achievements of their martial kings,
Who spread the Christian Faith where’er their arms
Prevaild, in Asia, and in Africa,
Idolatrous and superstitious rites
Extirpating; and those, too, whose exploits
From death’s oblivion their names redeem’d:
These let me sing, and wide extend their fame,
If to such themes my Muse may dare aspire.

Edward Quillinan (1853)

Arms, and the men heroic of the West,
Who from their native Lusitanian shore,
By seas till then unnavigated prest
Evën beyond Taprobanè, and more
Than seem’d of human force the hardest test,
Through wars and perils resolutely bore,
Raised a new empire in a distant clime,
And crown’d it with a glory all sublime.

These, and the kings of memory dear to fame,
Who, widening out dominion, spread the Faith,
Afflicted Afric as a chastening flame,
And Asia, rank with the idolater’s breath
And many a warrior who redeem’d his name
By deeds of prowess from the law of death
These shall my song proclaim in every part,
If Genius aid me, and melodious Art.

Thomas Mitchell (1854)

Arms, and the Barons signally renowned
Who from the western Lusitanian shore,
Far beyond Taprobane a passage found
By seas none ever sailed across before:
In perils great, fierce wars on unknown ground,
Meeting all adverse human strength with more:
To found midst people of a different sky,
A new realm that raised their names so high;

Likewise those Kings whose memorable deeds
Gloriously spread our holy faith and nation,
And to the wicked lands of sinful creeds
In Africa and Asia, devastation;
And those achieving by their valour’s meeds
From the dread law of death their liberation;
Singing I will proclaim, both far and wide,
If art and genius be not me denied.

John James Aubertin (1878)

Arms and the beroes signalised in fame,
Who from the western Lusitanian shore
Beyond e’en Taprobana sailing came
O’er seas that ne’er had traversed been before,
Dauntless in wars and dangers without name,
Achieving all of human force and more,
And midst a race remote in distant clime
New kingdom raised to future so sublime;

And all the glorious memories that grace
Those Kings who sallied forth to propagate
The Faith, the empire; and the countries base,
Asian and African, did devastate;
And those who hold by valorous deeds such place
That from death’s law their names they liberate,
Through all the world in song will I rehearse,
If art and genius so inspire my verse.

Robert Ffrench Duff (1880)

The arms I sing and that most glorious band
Of heroes far renowned, who did of yore
Embark on Lusitania’s western strand
For seas where fleets had never sailed before,
And boldly passed beyond the balmy shore
Of Taprobana: neither storm nor fight
Can stop their course; above them all they soar
Triumphant, and by superhuman might
They raise their native realm unto its proudest height.

Immortal glories these! nor less the fame
Of Lusitanian kings, whose guiding thought
Inspired their zealous efforts to proclaim
Their holy faith to pagans, and who sought
To bring the wild and savage tribes to naught
In Africa and Asia: men of heart
Undaunted, who undying glory bought
By scorning death. Such deeds, in every part
My Muse shall spread around, if genius aid my art.

Richard Francis Burton (1880)

The feats of Arms, and famed heroick Host,
from occidental Lusitanian strand,
who d’er the waters ne’er by seaman crost,
fared beyoud the Taprobáne-land,
forceful in perils and in battle-post,
with more than promised force of mortal hard;
and in the regions of a distant race
rear’d a new throne so haught in Pride of Place:

And, eke, the Kings of memory grand and glorious,
who hied them Holy Faith and Reign to spread,
converting, conquering, and in lands notorious,
Africk and Asia, devastation made;
nor less the Lieges who by deeds memorious
brake from the doom that binds the vulgar dead;
my song would sound o’er Farth’s extremest part
were mine the genius, mine the Poet’s art.

James Edwin Hewitt (1881)

Arms, and the Men of a redoubtcd name,
Far from the western Lusitanian shore,
Through seas where never prior vessel came,
Who further yet than Taprobana bore:
In dangers valiant, and in wars the same,
Exceeding what was pledged of human store,
And, among people of a distant clime
New kingdom built and rendered so sublime: .

And more the glorious memories of the Kings,
The Faith, the Empire forth who went to spread,
And, bearing upon Devastation’s wings,
Through baleful Africa and Asia sped:
And those by reason of right valorous things
Enfranchised from the law of death who tread:
I singing will diffuse on every side
If skill and art so far my effort guide.

Leonard Bacon (1950)

Arms, and those matchless chiefs who from the shore
Of Western Lusitania began
To track the oceans none had sailed before,
Yet past Tapróbané’s far limit ran,
And daring every danger, every war,
With courage that excelled the powers of Man,
Amid remotest nations caused to rise
Young empire which they carried to the skies;

So, too, good memory of those kings who went
Afar, religion and our rule to spread;
And who, through either hateful continent,
Afric or Asia, like destruction sped;
And theirs, whose valiant acts magnificent
Saved them from the dominion of the dead,
My song shall sow through the world’s every part,
So help me this my genius and my art.

Landeg White (1997)

Arms are my theme, and those matchless heroes
Who from Portugal’s far western shores
By oceans where none had ventured
Voyaged to Taprobana and beyond,
Enduring hazards and assaults
Such as drew on more than human prowess
Among far distant peoples, to proclaim
A New Age and win undying fame;

Kings likewise of glorious memory
Who magnified Christ and Empire,
Bringing ruin on the degenerate
Lands of Africa and Asia;
And others whose immortal deeds
Have conquered death’s oblivion
These words will go whereever there are men
If art and invention steer my pen.

From Morris Bishop’s Spilt Milk.

Look Us Over, Posterity

Historians dealing with Mary of Scots
 Grieve and deplore, as is customary,
The lack of materials touching her plots;
 We cannot be sure if we’re just to Mary.

The documents’ dearth, it is commonly said,
 Interferes with the proper commemorating
Of Cheops, Columbus, and Eric the Red;
 It’s a troublesome task to give them a rating.

But the present is aiding the future, at last,
 With newsreels and libraries, fortunately;
Now every suburbanite writes of his past
 In the long afternoons on his porch in Nutley.

The Times has its copies imprinted on rag,
 And no corner-stone is impenetrable
To him who would learn how we blab or we brag
 Of society’s shame and our Senate trouble.

We leave to posterity treasures of facts
 To resolve all the legends that grow about us,
And the richest equipment to study our acts —
 But what if it won’t want to know about us?

It Rolls On

This is the time of wonder, it is written;
 Man has attained the ultimate mysteries.
 (We turn from the Chrysler Tower to watch a kitten,
 Turn to a dead fish from Isocrates;
Men on great liners drink but to be smitten
 With coma, on the subjugated seas;
 Einstein is even more dull than Bulwer Lytton;
 There’s no sweet influence of the Pleiades.)
Science no longer knows the verb-form “can’t”;
 Our cars will soon be powered by radio;
 Scholars are harnessing the urgent ant
And making monstrous bastard fruits to grow,
 Building machines for things I do not want,
 Discovering truths I do not care to know.

From Ethel Jacobson’s Mice in the Ink.

Campaigner

The decibel
Weaves a spell
Quicker than
Logic can.

Outline for Everything

Heaven

A place of Babylonian splendor
And cherubim of neuter gender.

Earth

In practically every stratum
Cash is the main desideratum.

Hell

The climate’s frankly far from swell —
But how august our clientele!

Giraffes and Gnus

Giraffes and gnus
In zoos amuse
Curious crowds
Of humans whose
Ludicrous aspects,
It ensues,
Likewise amuse
Giraffes and gnus.

First Word

Imagine it —
 A prodigy!
Today she talked,
 And fluently!
No child of ours
 Could be a dunce;
But — to converse
 At seven months!
Although it’s strange
 She chose to speak
In Toltec, Czech —
 Or was it Greek?

Driving in Traffic is Hardly Seraphic

I start. I stop.
I barely crawl.
I spurt ten feet.
And then I stall.
I’m tooted at, stared at,
Hooted at, blared at,
Sideswiped, glared at,
Gestured at, sweared at!
It’s more than mortal
Flesh should bear,
Merely to get
From Here to There.

Nevermore Shall Dawn This Spring

Nevermore shall bloom this rose,
Nevermore shall dawn this spring.
Cherish it before it goes
Past all vain remembering.

Take the slight and fragile gift,
This brief measure of delight.
Soon the scattered petals drift
Down every heedless wind of night.

Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy

Curved and cool as the lotus,
She gazes undismayed
Across the inconsequential dust
Where dynasties are laid.

How much wider, bloodier
Must grow the mortal rift
Before a torn world pauses
To take her quiet gift?

Atomic Courtesy

To smash the simple atom
All mankind was intent.
 Now any day
 The atom may
Return the compliment.

Theodorides (tr. William James)

A shipwrecked sailor on this coast bids you set sail,
Full many a gallant ship ere we were lost weathered the gale.

Robert Herrick

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore,
Ships have been drown’d where late they danc’d before.

From Maragret Fishback’s Time for a Quick One.

Wishful Thinking

Two thousand years Europe has tried
To settle quarrels by suicide.
Will peace-on-earth, good-will-to-men
Ever hallow the world again?

Heigh-Heigh Fever

The peaceful countryside is pretty,
But I am partial to the city.

Brought up on straight monoxide gas,
I don’t react to new-mown grass.

Besides, commuting leaves me cold —
Commuters all look tired and old.

Their backs are bent, their legs are lame —
I live in town, and look the same.

Career Girl

Getting and spending, we lay waste
Our powers, whereupon we’re faced
With jobs, continually better.
This satisfies a real go-getter,
But I’ve a melancholy notion
All is not gold that’s called promotion,
And so I hope, before I’m through,
To eat my cake, and bake it, too.

Reunion at Rising Gorge

Bright college days have come and gone;
I toast them with a craven yawn,
And pusillanimously note
Your extra chin where all was throat.

Those hips are likewise on the make;
And children toddle in your wake
To call me Auntie, which I find
Repulsive to my girlish mind.

So may I wistfully suggest
For both of us, new friends are best?
You’ll doubtless feel the way I do
If you love me as I love you.

Revolt in a Flat

I shall stay in bed all day.
I am tired of making hay
While the sun shines. Let it rain.
Let it shine. My sullen brain
Needs a rest. I want to root
Here beneath my quilt and snoot
Capital. Nor wheel nor cog
Of progress shall dispel my fog.
I am sick of zeal and action.
What I want is stupefaction.

Creepy, Crawly

The so-called drivers who proceed
 At fifteen miles an hour deserve
Tickets as much as those who weave
 And loop-the-loop on hill and curve.

The snail’s misguided life is spent
 Precipitating traffic jams;
Because of him, mudguards are bent
 And skies are blue with hells and damns.

So please, indomitable cop,
Make Dopey either go or stop.

Fun on the Front Page

Raise the flag and fling confetti
For Joe DiMaggio and Crosetti,
For Dickey, Ruffing, Rolfe… The Yanks
Deserve a hearty vote of thanks.

Let all our hats on all our heads
Be doffed in honor of the Reds
As well. Hip, hip, likewise hurray,
No matter which team wins today,

No matter which club comes to grief,
It will afford us some relief
To see Page One display a score
That has no bearing on the war.

Moment Musicale

I want to vegetate and read,
And joyously repair to seed…
This burning itch to Get Ahead
Leaves much too little time for bed.

From Morris Bishop’s Paramount Poems.

One of Our Menaces

Ho hum, ho hum,
 I’ve a happy life,
I’ve a little sonny,
 A nice little wife;
I’ve a little money
 From a nice little store;
Ho hum, ho hum,
 I wish there was a war.

Life is very pleasant
 And always just the same;
I can call the mayor
 By his first name;
As a golf-player
 I’ve a low score;
Ho hum, ho hum,
 I wish there was a war.

My wife gives a party,
 It’s really very nice,
We have a little salad,
 Coffee and an ice;
I sing a funny ballad,
 The folks yell for more —
Ho hum, ho hum,
 I wish there was a war.

I’d like to loot cathedrals
 And hang men to trees,
I’d like to have a try at
 A few atrocities;
I’d like world-wide riot,
 I don’t care what it’s for —
Ho hum, ho hum,
 Let’s have a war!

The Wise Men

“Be Thrifty,” say the sages,
 “And put away your rocks,
For thus one’s green old age is
 Secure from wrecks and shocks;
Do not, of course, be sordid,
 But build against mischance;
Thrift always is rewarded!”
 (Except in Germany, Austria, Hungary, Czecho-Slovakia, Russia and France.)
“Be Loyal,” say the wise men,
 “To what we say you should;
The time may come that tries men,
 But all is to the good;
Though War is quite a burden,
 Prosperity and peace
Are loyal peoples’ guerdon!”
 (Except in Italy, Belgium, Poland, Jugo-Slavia, Turkey and Greece.)

I may not be so clever,
 But when the Wise Men crow:
“Always, forever, never,
 This thing or that is so;
The Truth is what I utter,
 World-wide, unchanging, whole!”
Well, I’m afraid I mutter:
 “Except in Africa, Asia, America, Europe, Australia, and the North Pole!”

The Exile’s Christmas

Today the sky is gray with snow
Over a town I used to know,
And memories on the snow drift down
Over an unforgotten town.

Ah, heaven, might I see once more
The dear paternal grocery store!
I hear, in wistful make-believe,
The merry din of Christmas Eve;
Again resound the shouts and sallies
Of voices tuned to windy valleys;
A sleigh stops in the village street,
And, stamping on his frozen feet,
Red Sim comes in, shakes snow from collar,
And tells the news from Pony Hollow.
Then silence, as we turn our chaws
In the slow orbit of the jaws.

Alas! I am condemned to dwell
High in an arrogant hotel;
I sit in my palatial suite
And hunger once again to eat
Beans and brown bread, black and hard,
Buckwheat pancakes fried in lard,
And dour plum puddings, citron-crested,
Indigestible, undigested.
Why can I not arise and flee
From all this sickly luxury?

Why can I not go home again?
It’s only seven hours by train.
Can I not bridge that little span?
To be quite frank, of course I can.
Instead, I join the band that sits
In the bright caverns of the Ritz
Gazing upon the Christmas folly
With sick and wayward melancholy;
We go to dine, lugubrious;
The dining-room is full of us;
In the rose-glimmering catacomb
We yearn for the rude walls of home.
“Go home, for heaven’s sake!” say you.
We never did, we never do.
The burdened memories crowd and troop.
A tear drops in the turtle soup.

From Ethel Jacobson’s Who Me?.

Conversational Chimera

You frankly begin
With “Needless to say —,”
Then proceed to tell me
Anyway.

But I dream of someone —
Don’t wake me, don’t —
Who, when it’s needless
To say something, won’t.

Brief History of Feminine Emancipation

From Adam’s rib
To Women’s Lib.

Worried Capitalist

Oh, what shall I put my money in?
Industrials? Bolivian tin?
What’s a good hedge against inflation?
Debentures? Gold? A combination
Of Building and Loans and blue-chip stock?
Or stash it away in a mattress or sock?
These jittery times, it’s hard to know.
Should I plan for a balanced portfolio,
Or would it be smarter to go and blow
The whole fifty bucks at Pimlico?

The Unprejudiced

Fair, always open to suggestion,
 Unbiased, though my views are strong ones,
I see all sides of every question —
 My side and the wrong ones.

No Golden Age

I rather think that Socrates,
Viewing today’s mediocrities,
Would ring for room service and, aghast,
Order “A double hemlock, fast!”

Unsung Genius

His fame is dim,
 His life unknown.
No wreath for him,
 No carven stone.
He lived, he wrote,
 He now is gone —
The tireless pote
 We call Anon.

Regrets

Tears, my glum repentant one,
 Mean you now agree
That sinning wasn’t half the fun
 You hoped that it would be.

Happy Birthday!

You’ll never be old —
As old, I mean,
As Thirty seems
To Seventeen.

Golden Eagle

O golden bird,
Daughter of the sun
And of perilous crags,
O soaring, burnished one,
My sight can barely
Trace you on the sky.

Yet how miraculous
Your huntress eye
That marks the slighest
Bend of a weed
Where a white-footed mouse
Is garnering seed
Too far from home.

A plummet, a swoop, a shrill
Half-cry in the throat,
Then the meadow is empty, still.
Once more pinions are spread
And the bronze bird takes flight,
Staring into the sun
That blinds my human sight.

Richard Armour’s Foreword to Ethel Jacobson’s I’ll Go Quietly:

Light verse is an exacting art, demanding technical perfection, precision in the choice of words, and a nimble wit. But these are merely tools. More important is the requisite attitude toward life and toward oneself, a sense of the comic, the ability to detect the incongruous and the absurd.

Ethel Jacobson is one of the best modern practitioners of an art that began, in English, with Chaucer. She is a light verse writer’s light verse writer, able to cram much into few words, well-versed as well as well-versified, respectful of the requirements of her craft. What she has to say is as fresh and unexpected as the way she says it. Hers is the sharpness, not of claws, but of a keen and observant mind.

She sees the defects of the human race, but merely records them without bitterness and without preachment. (“If you know a better race,” she suggests, “go join it.”) All through her work runs a genuine regard for people, animals, and nature, wild or tame. She is capable of high satire and sparkling fun, but the fun, almost invariably, turns on herself. This is not only the kind of poet but the kind of person Ethel Jacobson is.

Her verses, in the thousands, have appeared in leading national periodicals. Her rhymes have been collected — not calm and collected, just collected — in two previous volumes, Larks in My Hair, and Mice in the Ink.

Here, now, is another volume of bright, skillful lines in the best tradition of an ancient and honorable art.

From Margaret Fishback’s Who’s a Mother:

It’s a Promise!

May heaven help me not to bore
 My friends with talk of teething.
They’ve met such miracles before,
 Including even breathing.

They’ve seen their share of babes in bed,
 Some somnolent, some sprightly.
They’ve heard what Little Mary said,
 And oh’d and ah’d politely.

So I’ll be kind to kin and kith
 And mind my subject matter,
Unless they persecute me with
 Their own maternal chatter.

To a Small City Slicker

Dear little human dynamo
Perpetually on the go,
Your hummingbird vitality
Amazes and bedevils me.

With puckered brow and aching feet,
I chase you up and down the street.
God gave you something to be sat on,
But you must cover all Manhattan.

You’re bored, parading in your pram.
At large, you’re happy as a clam.
Oh, for a yard to set you loose,
And let me rest on my caboose!

The Stag at Eve

When Little Tarzan eats his beans
And other unattractive greens,
I give the model child a cake
As a reward, for goodness’ sake.

But when he buttons up his trap
And won’t devour a single scrap
Of foliage, do I then deny
The stubborn apple of my eye
A sweet, and let him starve? Would you?
I think, like me, you’d give him two.

Thus do I keep the toothsome brat
Luxuriously pink and fat.
And if my views are in collision
With those held by our pediatrician;
If he condemns my soft technique
As reprehensible and weak,
I’d like to have him come to dinner
And try to feed the little sinner.

Who’s Getting Pushed Around?

I love my tadpole more than breath,
Or bread, or drink. I’d suffer death,
Or pain, or illness, short or long,
To keep him flourishing and strong.
But candor forces me to say
I eagerly await the day
When some poor kindergarten teacher
Will wrestle with the little creature.

Unnatural Phenomenon

The tots I mingle with are smart.
They know the alphabet by heart
Before they even go to school.
I’ve met no kindergarten fool,
No single backward child among
My friends’ extraordinary young.
As wise as Solomon and witty
As Sullivan, they talk so pretty,
Their parents quote them left and right.
Each child’s preposterously bright.

Now tell me why, with such a crop
Of geniuses, should brilliance stop?
Why is the intellectual colt
A creature predisposed to molt?
What makes the infant master mind
Leave all precocity behind?
What happens to these baby wizards
That they should grow up mental lizards?
When all are prodigies as pups,
How come so many dull grownups?