A Fan

A Fan

From India's burning clime I'm brought,
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris, when she paints the sky,
Can show more different hues than I:
Nor can she change her form so fast,
I'm now a sail, and now a mast.
I here am red, and there am green,
A beggar there, and here a queen.
I sometimes live in a house of hair,
And oft in hand of lady fair.
I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold
Say what I am then, if you can,
And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

-THE END-
Jonathan Swift and friends' poem: A Fan

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