|He came with tattered cap awry
And thin blotched face and mouth agape, And watery nose and vacant eye,
Just nine years old–a listless shape.
Quiet, with inefiective hands,
He used to sit at first and gaze
Across the shining mounded sands
Beyond the heaving sea, for days.
But now. He is a little king
Who holds the coast beneath his sway. Climbing Round Rock and galloping From Inch-by-Inch to Silver Spray.
Diving with joy to bring to light Some trophy from the ocean bed,
Or challenging with his frail kite
The aeroplane that roars o’erhead.
Only, at times, his lively eye
Darkens as something flits or falls Across his childish memory
Or to his childish longing calls,
And then his elders try in vain
To prise apart the treasure chest
Of his tight thought: but soon again
He smiles, and smiling seems at rest.
Where rove his earnest powers? Perchance He feels a kinship with the sun.
And wonders if drab circumstance
For him is now forever done,
|And some day, may be, we shall find Hurled from our cool habitual ease, What mighty continents of mind
He trod in these dark reveries.