The Dreaming Boy

And who can stop thee; who can turn thee back?

Not giants, though they stand full twenty feet,

And sit too tall for common men to stand.

Oh, that sweet magic in thee, happy boy!

It makes a golden world for all things young.

Thou with an iron ring, a piece of bone,

A rusty blade, or half a yard of rope,

Art richer than a man with mines and ships.

The child’s fresh mind makes honey out of soot,

Sweeter than age can make an banks of flowers;

He needs but cross a bridge, that happy boy,

And he can breathe the air of a new world.

Sweet children, with your trust in this hard life—

Like little birds that ape their mouths for food

From hands that come to cage them till they die.