Classic Poem

A BOY goes by the window while I write,
Whistling — the little demon! — in delight.
I shake my fist and scowl at him, and curse
Over the carcase of my murdered verse.
And yet — which is it that the world most needs,
His happy laughter or my threadbare screeds?
There is more poetry in being young
Than in the finest song that Shakespeare sung —
And if that's true of godlike Shakespeare — well,
Whistle the Marseillaise, and ring the bell,
And chase the cat, and lose your tennis-ball,
And tear your trousers on the garden wall,
Scalp a Red Indian, sail the Spanish seas —
Do any mortal thing you damn well please.