---

John Greenleaf Whittier - The Barefoot Boy
Work rating: Medium

. 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!
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.