Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, homework, were a crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To skip, and pass our long test day.
Thou by the 6th floor we laugh
Shouldst homework find; I by the cafe
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you, my work, if I could
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My pencil dislike should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine words, and on thy essay gaze;
Two hundred to adore each literary device,
But thirty thousand to the teachers advice;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, homework, you deserve this state,
Nor would I procrastinate at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy work shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing words; they have made me cuss
That long-preserved a plus,
And my quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my rust;
The trash can a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy paper like morning dew,
And while thy willing formative transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like studius birds of prey,
Rather at once our words devour
Than language in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our neatness up into one ball,
And tear our folders with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.