The Fools

On the wrist a paroquet,
Motley on the shoulder,
We exist for joy of life,
Never growing older.

Dancing down the lane of years,
Rosy garlands trailing,
Who would pause for time or tears,
Barren days bewailing.

Brighter burden never were
Than the smiles we scatter,
Loving deeds and laughing love,
This is our great matter.

And the wise who scorn our bells
Mate with melancholy,
We are wiser than the wise,
Holding hands with folly.