Classic Poem

John Esten

I know a wee boy in a far-away land,
A boy with big eyes of gray,
Who used to fret and hold to my hand,
And talk to me all the day.

And when all the world went wrong with me,
And nobody seemed to care,
I'd feel his dear little hand on my knee —
And my little boy was there!

I meet little fellows wherever I go,
Some handsomer laddies than he,
You may take, if you want, all the boys that I know,
But just give my one boy to me.

At the curious tales that I used to tell
His big eyes would open so wide,
And for fear of the terrible were-wolf's spell
He used to creep close to my side.

He'd tell the most wonderful romances then,
That never came out of a book,
Of the rat and the cat and the little red hen,
And the kitten that fell in the brook.

It was easy to hurt him, this dear little child,
For he was so gentle and shy,
And if you would laugh when his stories grew wild,
He always would certainly cry.

If you laughed very hard at what he had said,
Ah, many the tears he would weep!
He'd run off and creep right under the bed,
And stay there till he was asleep.

And here in my room, where there is no boy,
Stands a bed by the empty chair,
Oh, what would I give just now for the joy
Of finding that little boy there!