HE is carved in alabaster, he is called the Reading Boy, A cross-legged little pagan, pondering o'er the Siege of Troy; He's a miniature Adonis, with a bandeau round his head, And he's reading late and early when he ought to be in bed. He cons an ancient manuscript, he scanneth as a sage, But with all his mighty reading, never yet hath turned a page; Never alabaster side glance at the turtle in the bowl, Never alabaster wiggle, 'though I know he has a soul. I have watched him late and early, just an image out of Rome, And politely offered bookmarks to divert him from that tome; Yea, with aggravating gestures sought to turn aside his face, But not for pots of honey could you make him lose his place. There he sits in sweet perfection that the chisel did unveil, With the rapture of an angel up against a lively tale. But I'd give an old maid's ransom, just to see that little wretch, Discard that Trojan magazine, and give a real good stretch. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE THE BIRTH OF ONE OF HER CHILDREN by ANNE BRADSTREET THE BLISSFUL DAY by ROBERT BURNS THE LOCKLESS DOOR by ROBERT FROST IN MEMORIAM: W.G. WARD by ALFRED TENNYSON AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME by WALT WHITMAN AN EARNEST SUIT [TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORESAKE HIM] by THOMAS WYATT THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |