A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play —
      For May is here once more, and so is he, —
      His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
    And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
    Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
      Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
      Of woody pathways winding endlessly
    Along the creek, where even yesterday
    He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook —
     Yet called the water "warm," with never lack
   Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
     Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, —
     His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back
   Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

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