Classic Poem

HERE'S his ragged " round-about. " . . .
Turn the pockets inside out:
See; his penknife, lost to use,
Rusted shut with apple-juice;
Here, with marbles, top and string,
Is his deadly " devil-sling, "
With its rubber, limp at last
As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax — buckles — leather straps —
Bullets, and a box of caps, —
Not a thing of all, I guess,
But betrays some waywardness —
E'en these tickets, blue and red,
For the Bible-verses said —
Such as this his mem'ry kept, —
" Jesus wept. "

Here's a fishing-hook and line,
Tangled up with wire and twine,
And dead angleworms, and some
Slugs of lead and chewing-gum,
Blent with scents that can but come
From the oil of rhodium.
Here — a soiled, yet dainty note,
That some little sweetheart wrote,
Dotting — " Vine grows round the stump, "
And — " My sweetest sugar-lump! "
Wrapped in this — a padlock key
Where he's filed a touch-hole — see!
And some powder in a quill
Corked up with a liver pill;
And a spongy little chunk
Of " punk. "

Here's the little coat — but O
Where is he we've censured so?
Don't you hear us calling, dear?
Back! come back, and never fear. —
You may wander where you will,
Over orchard, field and hill;
You may kill the birds, or do
Anything that pleases you!
Ah, this empty coat of his!
Every tatter worth a kiss;
Every stain as pure instead
As the white stars overhead:
And the pockets — homes were they
Of the little hands that play
Now no more — but, absent, thus