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| THERE ’S something in a noble boy, | |
| A brave, free-hearted, careless one, | |
| With his unchecked, unbidden joy, | |
| His dread of books and love of fun— | |
| And in his clear and ready smile, | 5 |
| Unshaded by a thought of guile, | |
| And unrepressed by sadness— | |
| Which brings me to my childhood back, | |
| As if I trod its very track, | |
| And felt its very gladness. | 10 |
| And yet it is not in his play, | |
| When every trace of thought is lost, | |
| And not when you would call him gay, | |
| That his bright presence thrills me most. | |
| His shout may ring upon the hill, | 15 |
| His voice be echoed in the hall, | |
| His merry laugh like music trill, | |
| And I unheeding hear it all; | |
| For, like the wrinkles on my brow, | |
| I scarcely notice such things now. | 20 |
| But when, amid the earnest game, | |
| He stops as if he music heard, | |
| And, heedless of his shouted name | |
| As of the carol of a bird, | |
| Stands gazing on the empty air | 25 |
| As if some dream were passing there— | |
| ’T is then that on his face I look, | |
| His beautiful but thoughtful face, | |
| And, like a long-forgotten book, | |
| Its sweet, familiar meaning trace, | 30 |
| Remembering a thousand things | |
| Which passed me on those golden wings, | |
| Which time has fettered now— | |
| Things that came o’er me with a thrill, | |
| And left me silent, sad, and still, | 35 |
| And threw upon my brow | |
| A holier and a gentler cast, | |
| That was too innocent to last. | |
| ’T is strange how thought upon a child | |
| Will, like a presence, sometime press; | 40 |
| And when his pulse is beating wild, | |
| And life itself is in excess— | |
| When foot and hand, and ear and eye, | |
| Are all with ardor straining high— | |
| How in his heart will spring | 45 |
| A feeling, whose mysterious thrall | |
| Is stronger, sweeter far than all; | |
| And, on its silent wing, | |
| How with the clouds he ’ll float away, | |
| As wandering and as lost as they! | 50 |
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