My problem boy, now six-foot-two, full grown,
Is a man crowned with content, eyes wonder bright,
Who stops his toil to watch a lark in flight
Or listen to its silver flute intone
The wild, sweet breath of spring, for on his own
Green acres--no soul-need to prove his might--
He plants and reaps, with love his acolyte,
Yet spares the pheasant's nest till young have flown.
Once as we watched the land's awaking soul
Gently he mused: "Recall your problem lad?...
Who visions a great oak will plant the seed."--
His hand reached out, caressed the new-born foal;
His eyes sought mine with tenderness--"I had
A teacher, one who saw and filled my need."
