by W. D. Snodgrass

    The green catalpa tree has turned

    All white； the cherry blooms once more.

    In one whole year I haven't learned

    A blessed thing they pay you for.

    The blossoms snow down in my hair；

    The trees and I will soon be bare.

    The trees have more than I to spare.

    The sleek¹， expensive girls I teach，

    Younger and pinker every year，

    Bloom gradually out of reach.

    The pear tree lets its petals² drop

    Like dandruff on a tabletop.

    The girls have grown so young by now

    I have to nudge myself to stare.

    This year they smile and mind me how

    My teeth are falling with my hair.

    In thirty years I may not get

    Younger， shrewder， or out of debt.

    The tenth time， just a year ago，

    I made myself a little list

    Of all the things I'd ought to know，

    Then told my parents， analyst³，

    And everyone who's trusted me

    I'd be substantial， presently.

    I haven't read one book about

    A book or memorized one plot.

    Or found a mind I did not doubt.

    I learned one date.  And then forgot.

    And one by one the solid scholars

    Get the degrees， the jobs， the dollars.

    And smile above their starchy collars.

    I taught my classes Whitehead's notions；

    One lovely girl， a song of Mahler's.

    Lacking a source-book or promotions⁴，

    I showed one child the colors of

    A luna moth⁵ and how to love.

    I taught myself to name my name，

    To bark back， loosen love and crying；

    To ease my woman so she came，

    To ease an old man who was dying.

    I have not learned how often I

    Can win， can love， but choose to die.

    I have not learned there is a lie

    Love shall be blonder， slimmer， younger；

    That my equivocating⁶ eye

    Loves only by my body's hunger；

    That I have forces true to feel，

    Or that the lovely world is real.

    While scholars speak authority

    And wear their ulcers⁷ on their sleeves，

    My eyes in spectacles shall see

    These trees procure⁸ and spend their leaves.

    There is a value underneath⁹

    The gold and silver in my teeth.

    Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives，

    We shall afford our costly¹⁰ seasons；

    There is a gentleness survives

    That will outspeak and has its reasons.

    There is a loveliness exists，

    Preserves us， not for specialists.

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