Long time, (from my youth!) favorite poem.
The
Barefoot Boy
BY JOHN
GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Blessings
on thee, little man,
Barefoot
boy, with cheek of tan!
With
thy turned-up pantaloons,
And
thy merry whistled tunes;
With
thy red lip, redder still
Kissed
by strawberries on the hill;
With
the sunshine on thy face,
Through
thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From
my heart I give thee joy,—
I
was once a barefoot boy!
Prince
thou art,—the grown-up man
Only
is republican.
Let
the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot,
trudging at his side,
Thou
hast more than he can buy
In
the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward
sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings
on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh
for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep
that wakes in laughing day,
Health
that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge
never learned of schools,
Of
the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of
the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight
of fowl and habitude
Of
the tenants of the wood;
How
the tortoise bears his shell,
How
the woodchuck digs his cell,
And
the ground-mole sinks his well;
How
the robin feeds her young,
How
the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where
the whitest lilies blow,
Where
the freshest berries grow,
Where
the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where
the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of
the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason
of his walls of clay,
And
the architectural plans
Of
gray hornet artisans!
For,
eschewing books and tasks,
Nature
answers all he asks;
Hand
in hand with her he walks,
Face
to face with her he talks,
Part
and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings
on the barefoot boy!
Oh
for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding
years in one brief moon,
When
all things I heard or saw,
Me,
their master, waited for.
I
was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds
and honey-bees;
For
my sport the squirrel played,
Plied
the snouted mole his spade;
For
my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled
over hedge and stone;
Laughed
the brook for my delight
Through
the day and through the night,
Whispering
at the garden wall,
Talked
with me from fall to fall;
Mine
the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine
the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine,
on bending orchard trees,
Apples
of Hesperides!
Still
as my horizon grew,
Larger
grew my riches too;
All
the world I saw or knew
Seemed
a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned
for a barefoot boy!
Oh
for festal dainties spread,
Like
my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter
spoon and bowl of wood,
On
the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er
me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed,
the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained,
fringed with gold,
Looped
in many a wind-swung fold;
While
for music came the play
Of
the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And,
to light the noisy choir,
Lit
the fly his lamp of fire.
I
was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited
on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily,
then, my little man,
Live
and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though
the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared
the new-mown sward,
Every
morn shall lead thee through
Fresh
baptisms of the dew;
Every
evening from thy feet
Shall
the cool wind kiss the heat:
All
too soon these feet must hide
In
the prison cells of pride,
Lose
the freedom of the sod,
Like
a colt’s for work be shod,
Made
to tread the mills of toil,
Up
and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy
if their track be found
Never
on forbidden ground;
Happy
if they sink not in
Quick
and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah!
that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere
it passes, barefoot boy!
