Classic Poem

He goes whacking a stick
Against a tree or wall,
Giving a stone a kick,
Or aiming at nothing at all.

And with his grin or stare,
The freckles on his nose,
His aimless, intent air,
An inimitable way he goes.

He, though in making, still
Is in himself complete;
An elemental trill
Echoes behind his feet.

Inviolate even after
Ages of dissenting tongues,
He is incarnate laughter
Lifting from Time's deep lungs.