Willie
Three-year-old Willie, barefooted Willie,
Willie with hair in a golden-thread tangle;
Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie,
Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle;
Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen;
Willie, whose father carried a hod;
Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder
Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God.
Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper,
Bidding me love thee, entering there,
Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me,
Thy manner half saucy and half debonair?
With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie,
And face all begrimed? 'T is not fitting, you know, —
Velvet and laces are fine, naughty Willie,
And poor little boys should not come to me so.
The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling,
And ah, what a shout! — Is he laughing at me?
Can the rascal know even the thoughts I am thinking? —
Now rushes upon me and climbs to my knee.
And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly —
To listening hearts how a baby can speak! —
He tells me, while faces and tatters are blending,
And his sunshiny tangles are brushing my cheek:
" I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me;
But my soul is a new one — fresh from God;
And He gave me something so brave and holy,
It never can turn to an earthly clod.
The birds never sing, " Little Willie is ragged!"
Nor the flowers, " He will soil us. Take him away!"
But they 're glad when I happen to look and to listen,
And the blue sky is over me night and day.
" And what if my father, with hod and trowel,
Carried and toiled the whole day long, —
Did n't he comfort my mother and love her?
Did n't he cheer her with frolic and song?
I never saw him. One bright autumn morning,
Just three years ago, he went off to the war;
Went off to battle for you and your country,
And then — he never came back any more.
" Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel,
Never came back with his joke and his song.
Mother would know only working and weeping
If I were not sunny and careless and strong.
She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses,
And prays to the saints that her boy may be good;
Were she rich, she would keep me as clean as a daisy,
Not ragged and soiled in my fresh babyhood. "
Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me!
Into my heart enter blithesomely still.
Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy,
Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!
Willie with hair in a golden-thread tangle;
Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie,
Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle;
Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen;
Willie, whose father carried a hod;
Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder
Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God.
Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper,
Bidding me love thee, entering there,
Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me,
Thy manner half saucy and half debonair?
With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie,
And face all begrimed? 'T is not fitting, you know, —
Velvet and laces are fine, naughty Willie,
And poor little boys should not come to me so.
The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling,
And ah, what a shout! — Is he laughing at me?
Can the rascal know even the thoughts I am thinking? —
Now rushes upon me and climbs to my knee.
And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly —
To listening hearts how a baby can speak! —
He tells me, while faces and tatters are blending,
And his sunshiny tangles are brushing my cheek:
" I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me;
But my soul is a new one — fresh from God;
And He gave me something so brave and holy,
It never can turn to an earthly clod.
The birds never sing, " Little Willie is ragged!"
Nor the flowers, " He will soil us. Take him away!"
But they 're glad when I happen to look and to listen,
And the blue sky is over me night and day.
" And what if my father, with hod and trowel,
Carried and toiled the whole day long, —
Did n't he comfort my mother and love her?
Did n't he cheer her with frolic and song?
I never saw him. One bright autumn morning,
Just three years ago, he went off to the war;
Went off to battle for you and your country,
And then — he never came back any more.
" Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel,
Never came back with his joke and his song.
Mother would know only working and weeping
If I were not sunny and careless and strong.
She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses,
And prays to the saints that her boy may be good;
Were she rich, she would keep me as clean as a daisy,
Not ragged and soiled in my fresh babyhood. "
Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me!
Into my heart enter blithesomely still.
Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy,
Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!
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