The Barefoot Boy

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 brims 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 boyhoods painless play,     Sleep that wakes in laughing day,     Health that mocks the doctors rules,     Knowledge never learned of schools,     Of the wild bees morning chase,     Of the wild-flowers 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 orioles nest is hung;     Where the whitest lilies blow,     Where the freshest berries grow,     Where the ground-nut trails its vine,     Where the wood-grapes clusters shine;     Of the black wasps 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 boyhoods 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!     Oer 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 colts 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!