Computations
A Poem.
“I have it! I have it!” the Mathematician cried, His hair in a frazzle, his glasses gone all awry, His chalk making sparks from blackboard fly.
“What is it? What is it?” in wonderment asked I. To which he replied- “The purpose of it all, the meaning of life! That one makes one, and from the prime doth all align, And, hear this- that three plus two equals five!”
I looked to his blackboard, the equations in all their throngs, Awhile passed ‘fore my reply came along- “Is that really it? It sounds quite all... wrong.”
The Mathematician gaped at me, Like I were a mere ding-dong. “Is that really it?” parroted he, “How nescient, how headstrong! Can you not see the beauty of it ringing like a gong?” I confessed I could not and took my leave, Knowing here I did not belong, I stepped back out of his lab and into a world of green, And a sky ‘ateem with birdsong.
How soon unaccountable I became tired and weak,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off and headlong,
In the mystical moist night-air, and a time or three,
Look’d up and read a poem that’s hardly wrong.