A Barefoot Boy

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 pocket-book.