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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341840" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Escape of the Old Grey Squirrel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Grey Squirrel might have been <br>Almost anything -<br>Might have been a soldier, sailor, <br>Tinker, tailor<br>(Never a beggar-man, though, nor thief). <br>Might have been, perhaps, a king, <br>Or an Indian chief.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He remained a City clerk <br>Doubled on a great high stool,<br>Totting up, from dawn to dark, <br>Figures, figures, figures, figures,<br>Red ink, black ink, double rule, <br>Tot-tot-totting with his pen, <br>Up and down and round again -<br>Curious Old Grey Squirrel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No one ever really knew <br>What he did at night,<br>In his room so near the roof, <br>Up those steep and narrow stairs.<br>Old Grey Squirrel wasn't quite <br>The same as other men.<br>What he said was always true; <br>He was like a little child <br>In a thousand things.<br>Something shy and delicate, <br>Cold and grave and undefiled,<br>Seemed to keep him quite aloof. <br>You could never call him lonely,<br>Though he lived with memory there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When he knelt beside his bed <br>He had nothing much to say<br>But the simplest little prayer <br>Learned in childhood, long ago,<br>And he didn't know or care <br>Whether Calvinists might call it<br>Praying for the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, mother, sister, brother -<br>Memories clear as evening bells; <br>Yes, the very sort of thing<br>All your clever little scribblers <br>Love to satirize and sting, <br>So let's talk of something else.<br>He collected stamps, you know, <br>Commonplace Old Squirrel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, but could you see him there, <br>When the day's grey work was done,<br>Poring over his new stamps<br>With that wise old air; <br>Looking up the curious places<br>In his tattered atlas, too <br>Lands of jungle and of sun, <br>Ivory tusks and dusky faces,<br>Whence his latest treasure flew <br>Like a tropic moth, he thought,<br>To flutter round his dying lamp. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Visions are not bought and sold; <br>But, when the foreign mail came in<br>Bringing his employers news <br>Of copper, sulphide, zinc and tin<br>(And the red resultant gold), <br>Envelopes were thrown away,<br>So, of course, one clearly sees <br>He could pick, and he could choose,<br>Having, as he used to say, <br>'Very great advantages.'<br>Rarities could not be bought. <br>Bus fares don't leave much for spending<br>On a flight to Zipangu.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the same, one never knew. <br>All things come to those who wait -<br>Isles of palm in rose and blue, <br>India, China and Peru,<br>And the Golden Gate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So he'd turn his treasures over -<br>Mauve and crimson, buff and cream -<br>Every stamp an elfin window<br>Opening on a boy's lost dream. <br>'Curious, curious, that's Jamaica,<br>That's Hong Kong (the twopenny red),<br>I've no doubt they are well worth seeing, <br>Well worth seeing,' Old Squirrel said.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Curious' - curious was his word -<br>Old Grey Squirrel remembered a day<br>Sitting alone in a whispering fir-wood <br>(This was in boyhood before they caught him)<br>Writing a story of far Cathay, <br>A tale that his friends would think absurd<br>But would make him famous when he was dead. <br>'Curious' - thinking of all those years,<br>All those dreams that had drifted away - <br>Once, he had thought - but the years had taught him, <br>Taught him better, and bowed his head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Curious' - memory clings and lingers - <br>Clings - the smell of the fir wood - clings . . .<br>Through his wrinkled ink-stained fingers, <br>'Curious, curious,' trickled the tears,<br>Curious Old Grey Squirrel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, you'd hardly call it weeping. <br>Old Grey Squirrel could not weep.<br>Head on arm, he might have been <br>Sleeping; but he did not know.<br>Most of us are sound asleep; <br>And, that Christmas Eve, it seems,<br>He awoke, at last, from dreams.<br>Gently, as a woman's hand<br>Something touched him on the brow,<br>And he woke, in that strange land -<br>Where he lives for ever now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All things come to those who wait -<br>Palms against a deeper blue,<br>Far Cathay and Zipangu,<br>And the Golden Gate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Noyes">Alfred Noyes</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341840" data-title="The Escape of the Old Grey Squirrel de Alfred Noyes" data-description="Old Grey Squirrel might have been 
Almost anything -
Might have been a soldier, sailor, 
Tinker, tailor
(Never a beggar-man, though, nor thief). 
Might have been, perhaps, a king, 
Or an Indian chief.

He remained a City clerk 
Doubled on a great ..."></div>
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