So to be loved and listened to and touched By crowds of moist-fingered little folks With eyes of wonder -- who would save his life And hug an English hearth for seventy years, When to be shipwrecked is to live forever? You thought you were dead to the world, but you were wrong, Old Crusoe, when you bobbed up on that isle Of curious creatures waiting to be tamed, And lonely footprints waiting for a friend. Dreaming of cobbled streets you fought your way Alone, and built your little brave stockade; Sick for a roof in England, long dumb hours You smoked your pipe out by your unshared fire; You thought that all was over, never guessed You were piling years up, looking to the days When little children would not let you die! |