Happy boy, happy boy, David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand times Slain, but not once killed, Swaggering again today In the old contemptuous way; Leaning backward from your thigh Up against the tinselled bar— Lust and ashes! is it you? Laughing, boasting, there you are! First we hardly recognized you In your modern avatar. Soldier, rifle, brown khaki— Is your blood as happy so? Where's your sling or painted shield, Helmet, or your pike, or bow? Well, you're going to the wars— That is all you need to know. Graybeards plotted. They were sad. Death was in their wrinkled eyes. At their tables—with their maps, Plans and calculations—wise They all seemed; for well they knew How ungrudgingly Youth dies. At their green official baize They debated all the night Plans for your adventurous days Which you followed with delight, Youth in all your wanderings, David of a thousand slings. |