But
curiously,
The
pale October moon
Sinks
too soon
And
shines no light upon the plight
Of
the distressed little doshes.
For
the Gostak distims the doshes
When
the year turns autumn green.
Sad
and sweet are the losses
Though
in fact they are never seen.
The
splendor in the grass
Sinks
down into the bottom
In
the first chill gust of autumn
When
the clouds of moon go past.
In
the soothing thoughts that spring
From
our human suffering
We
see the trail of doshes;
All
are mimsy and distimmed.
And
the slithy Gostak goes
Where
the cold winds always blow
From
the east far to the west.
After
the sleep of the colorless green,
The
doshes wake to wonder and see
The
flight of the borogoves blessed.
Then
toves and mome raths smell the grass,
The
splendors all to eat.
But
splendors sleep in burrows deep
Until
frabjous sky of spring.
Under
autumn moon the green ideas
Prefer
the light of noon.
The
uffish passions sleep til then
To
the cry of the burbling loon.
