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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD: 1. BOYHOOD by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)

First Line: FAIR BUDDING AGE
Last Line: AS BRIEF AND FAIR AS YOU.
Subject(s): BOYS;
FAIR budding age,
Which next upon life's stage
Passest a fairy dream before the eyes,
High health and bounding limb,
Eager and stretching towards the wished-for prize;
Whate'er the passing care that takes thy thought,
I catch the sweet brisk scent of trodden grass
When through the golden afternoon
Of a long day in June,
Until the twilight dim,
The playfield echoes with the joyous noise
Of troops of agile boys,
Who, bare-armed, throw the rapid-bounding ball;
Who shout and race and fall.
I see the warm pool fringed with meadow-sweet,
Where stream in summer, with eager feet
Through gold of buttercups and crested grass
The gay processions stripping as they pass.
I hear the cool and glassy depths divide
As the bold fair young bodies, far more fair
Than ever sculptured Nereids were,
Plunge fearless down, or push, with front or side,
Through the caressing wave.
I mark the deadly chill, thro' the young blood,
When some young life, snatched from the cruel flood,
Looks once upon the flowers, the fields, the sun, --
Looks once, and then is done!
Or the grey, frosty field, and the great ball
Urged on by flying feet.
Or when the skate rings on the frozen lake,
The gliding phantoms fleet,
Rosy with health, and laughing though they fall.
Or by the rapid stream or swirling pool,
The fisher, with his pliant wand.
Or by the covert-side, taking his stand,
The shooter, watching patient hour by hour,
With that hard youthful heart that young breasts hold,
Till the fur glances through the brake;
As when our savage sires wandered of old,
Hungering through primal wastes. I see them all,
The brisk, swift days of youth, which cares for nought
But for the joy of living; scarce a thought
Of Love, or Knowledge, or at best
Such labour as gives zest
To the great joy of living. Oh, blest time!
For which each passing hour rings out a chime
Of joy-bells all the year; ay, tho' through days
Of ill thou farest, and unhappy ways;
Or whether on the sun-struck lands thy feet
Are the young savage hunter's, lithe and fleet,
Turning at night-fall to thy father's cot,
Bathed in the full white moonlight; or dost stand
'Mid the hushed plains of some forsaken land; --
Where'er thou art, oh, boyhood! thou art free
And fresh as the young breeze in summer born
On sun-kissed hills or on the laughing sea,
Or gay bird-music breathing of the morn,
Or some sweet rose-bud pearled with early dew,
As brief and fair as you.



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