Willie

Three-year-old Willie, bare-footed Willie,
Willie, with hair in a golden-thread tangle;
Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie,
Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle;
Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen;
Willie, whose father carried a hod;
Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder
Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God--

Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper,
Bidding me love thee, entering there,
Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me,
Thy manner half saucy, half debonair?
With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie,
And face all begrimed? 'Tis not fitting, you know--
Velvets and laces are mine, naughty Willie,
And poor little boys should not come to me so.

The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling,
And, ah! what a shout! (is he laughing at me?
He surely can't take in a word I am saying)
Now rushes upon me, and climbs to my knee.
And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly--
To listening hearts a baby can speak--
He tells me (while velvet and rags are blending
And his unkempt hair is brushing my cheek):

"I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me;
But my soul is a new one--fresh from God;
And he gave it something so brave and holy
It never can turn to an earthly clod.
What though the gifts of the purse are denied me,
Poverty need not look out of my eyes;
Though it surround me, the bright world beyond it
Neither its warmth nor its beauty denies.

"The birds never sing, 'Little Willie is ragged!'
Nor the flowers, 'He will soil us! Take him away!'
But they're glad when I happen to look and to listen,
And the sky is above me night and day.
Did God make you richer because you were better?
And what if my mother does cook for you,
Isn't she cheerful? With half of her trials
Would you be as patient, and willing, and true?

"And what if my father, with hod and trowel,
Carried and toiled the whole day long,
Didn't he comfort my mother and love her?
Didn't he cheer her with joke and song?
I never saw him. One bright autumn morning,
Just three years ago, he went to the war--
Went out to battle for you and your country:
And then he never came home any more.

"Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel,
Never came back with his joke and his song.
Mother would know only working and weeping
If I were not sunny and careless, and strong.
She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses,
And prays to the saints that her boy may be good;
But for work, she would keep me as fresh as a daisy,
Not ragged and soiled, in my babyhood."--

Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me!
Into my heart enter blithesomely still.
Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy,
Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!