I sing this song
To glorify those lovable small boys
With roguish imps refusing to be soothed
To stillness in the very souls of them;
With music lilting from their laughing hearts;
(The joyous hours a whistling boy recalls!)
With breeches torn from climbing over fences;
(For what lure has a gate!) with wayward hair
Smoothed down in front but left untamed behind;
With faces glowing islands in a sea
Of darker waves in front of sunburned ears
When heads were reverently bowed before each meal.
(Why wash too thoroughly when hearts are clean!)
Remembering the lads
Who grew along with me and made a game
Of each day's living, playing hard and square;
Remembering perpetual appetites
That scarce could wait for hands to be hygienic;
(That tempting bread and jam! Those boyish grins!)
Remembering all the exhuberance bottled up--
The dynamo within each childish form--
That found release in dancing feet, in hands
Swinging an axe, creating willow whistles;
In tongues that were incessant babbling brooks
With every leaf-boat thought kept shining-clean.
Remembering how perfect they could be
In church each Sabbath day ... and seeing now
Their manliness in daring think and speak
Against chaotic treadmill apathy--
Remembering all this, I dare to say
I hope I find a few such lads in Heaven.
The American Bard
