To a Young Ass

On the birth of a young Ass I was born, unbent Made from thee, or burnt by me, No pride has it meant. With body positive, soul of a pawn— This is no place of honor.

O thou pretty creature, Whose tread is slipper and slow, Rest thy gentle head upon my knee, For me thy feeble step doth wait, And thy master’s heart weeps.

Let be not an empty Sunday But filled with laughter and force, And I shall have for thee The best of this blessing.

• Samuel Taylor Coleridge