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The Boy

O, little boy,

Fill thee with joy;

For Time gives thee

Unlicensed hours,

To run in fields,

And roll in flowers.

A little boy

Can life enjoy;

If but to see

The horses pass,

When shut indoors

Behind the glass.

Go, little boy,

Fill thee with joy;

Fear not, like man,

The kick of wrath,

That you do lie

In some one's path.

Time is to thee

Eternity,

As to a bird

Or butterfly;

And in that faith

True joy doth lie.

by

W.H. Davies