He was my problem boy: I had been told
To use severity against his vice.
Yet that first week of teaching, once or twice
A wonder filled his eyes. Before the old
Defiance gleamed, I saw beneath his bold
Contempt-defense, a thrush-flute melt the ice
About his heart; a timid colt entice
His tenderness ... The day I saw him hold
A wounded lark that could not soar the skies
And bind its broken wing and soothe its fear
Then softly say, "Sing, little lark!" I knew
And loved my problem lad. Then as his eyes
Pleaded his hungering, I drew him near
And gently said, "I love a lark-song too."
