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Poem by Jonathan Swift
On the Five Senses
All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother Knows one tittle of the other; We in frequent councils are, And our marks of things declare, Where, to us unknown, a clerk Sits, and takes them in the dark. He's the register of all In our ken, both great and small; By us forms his laws and rules, He's our master, we his tools; Yet we can with greatest ease Turn and wind him where we please. One of us alone can sleep, Yet no watch the rest will keep, But the moment that he closes, Every brother else reposes. If wine's brought or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest. Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel. Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful sound. Do what is not fit to tell, There's but one of us can smell.
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