Classic Poem

You have paid the boy for the toil you bought;
He has had the price of his weary days
When he crushed the dreams that would come unsought,
When he heard the call of the woodland ways,
And the endless drone of the whirring wheels
Held the subtle surge of the blurred refrain
Of the mumbling bees in the grass that steals
Thru the meadow fence and along the lane.

And the eyes that strained as he did his task
Felt the weight of the dreams till mirage came
And the dust-grimed walls were a sullen mask
Of the far fair hills where the flowers flame,
And the cluttered floor was a thing to fade
To sweep for land with its velvet sod
And a laughing brook where a boy can wade
By the banks where the drowsy blossoms nod.

You have paid the boy. Have you paid for all?
You have paid him fair for the work he gave.
But the pictures hid by the gloomy wall,
And the coaxing hands that the tree tops wave,
And the country road where the wreathing dust
Marks the flying feet of a happy lad—
You have paid the boy—and your course is just;
Can you pay for the fun he never had?

For his ways today are the ways of men
And his face is set with the lines of age;
Tho' the years of his life are a little span,
Was he paid for this when he got his wage?
You have paid the boy—but he paid you more
Than the days of toil he gave to you,
For he wasted all the untold store
Of the wonder dreams that he never knew.