There's a bump on his brow and a smear on his cheek That is plainly the stain of his tears; At his neck there's a glorious sun-painted streak, The bronze of his happiest years. Oh, he's battered and bruised at the end of the day, But smiling before me he stands, And somehow I like to behold him that way. Yes, I like him with dirt on his hands. Last evening he painfully limped up to me His tale of adventure to tell; He showed me a grime-covered cut on his knee, And told me the place where he fell. His clothing was stained to the color of clay, And he looked to be nobody's lad, But somehow I liked to behold him that way, For it spoke of the fun that he'd had. Let women-folk prate as they will of a boy Who is heedless of knickers and shirt; I hold that the badge of a young fellow's joy Are cheeks that are covered with dirt. So I look for him nightly to greet me that way, His joys and misfortunes to tell, For I know by the signs that he wears of his play That the lad I'm so fond of is well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MATRES DOLOROSAE by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE WHITE CASCADE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES STANZAS; HOOD'S LAST POEM by THOMAS HOOD ANECDOTE OF THE JAR by WALLACE STEVENS VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF DRUMLANRIG WOODS by ROBERT BURNS |