On Seeing A Beautiful Boy At Play.

Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls     From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,     And the clear color of his sunny cheek     Was bright with motion. Through his open lips     Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,     Like a white vein within a rosy shell,     And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay     Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew     Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly     As starlight from the edging of a cloud.     I never saw a boy so beautiful.     His step was like the stooping of a bird,     And his limbs melted into grace like things     Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like     A painter's fine conception - such an one     As he would have of Ganymede, and weep     Upon his pallet that he could not win     The vision to his easel. Who could paint     The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain     The visible gladness of a heart that lives,     Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,     With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift     Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,     And the new leaves of June, and the young lark     That flees away into the depths of heaven,     Lost in his own wild music, and the breath     Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon     In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept     Over sweet-toned affections - but the joy     That enters to the spirit of a child     Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,     The simple sense of being, is enough     To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch     He feels each moment of his life go by.     Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy     That like a robe is palpable, and flung     Out by your every motion! delicate bud     Of the immortal flower that will unfold     And come to its maturity in heaven!     I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light     Lent to the new born spirit that goes out     With the first idle wind. It is the leaf     Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance     Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,     Then sink of its own heaviness. The face     Of the delightful earth will to your eye     Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers     Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice     Of nature in her gentleness will be     To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.     I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!