View source for The Barefoot Boy

'''The Barefoot Boy''' is a poem by [[John Greenleaf Whittier]]. In January of 1855, "the Barefoot Boy" appeared in ''The Little Pilgrim'' and became an immediate success that appealed to both adults and children. Cornelius Conway Felton, later president of Harvard, read it in the ''Transcript'' andsaid it was as “delicious as a shower in a summer afternoon” and he “reveled again in the days of jacket-hood, torn hat-hood, barefoot-hood.” (quoted in Woodwell 252). After describing the particular joys of boyhood, from observations of insects and squirrels to tasting “Apples of Hesperides!” Whittier concludes with good wishes.

The poem is mentioned by [[Dr. Zachary Smith]] in ''[[Lost in Space]]'' episode "War of the Robots" as he speaks wistfully of his boyhood to [[Will Robinson]].

==Text==
<poem>
BLESSINGS on thee, little man,	
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!	
With thy turned-up pantaloons,	
And thy merry whistled tunes;	
With thy red lip, redder still	        
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;	
With the sunshine on thy face,	
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;	
From my heart I give thee joy,—	
I was once a barefoot boy!	        
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man	
Only is republican.	
Let the million-dollared ride!	
Barefoot, trudging at his side,	
Thou hast more than he can buy	        
In the reach of ear and eye,—	
Outward sunshine, inward joy:	
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!	
 
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,	
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,	        
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,	
Knowledge never learned of schools,	
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,	
Of the wild flower’s time and place,	
Flight of fowl and habitude	        
Of the tenants of the wood;	
How the tortoise bears his shell,	
How the woodchuck digs his cell,	
And the ground-mole sinks his well;	
How the robin feeds her young,	        
How the oriole’s nest is hung;	
Where the whitest lilies blow,	
Where the freshest berries grow,	
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,	
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;	        
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,	
Mason of his walls of clay,	
And the architectural plans	
Of gray hornet artisans!	
For, eschewing books and tasks,	        
Nature answers all he asks;	
Hand in hand with her he walks,	
Face to face with her he talks,	
Part and parcel of her joy,—	
Blessings on the barefoot boy!	        
 
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,	
Crowding years in one brief moon,	
When all things I heard or saw,	
Me, their master, waited for.	
I was rich in flowers and trees,	        
Humming-birds and honey-bees;	
For my sport the squirrel played,	
Plied the snouted mole his spade;	
For my taste the blackberry cone	
Purpled over hedge and stone;	        
Laughed the brook for my delight	
Through the day and through the night,—	
Whispering at the garden wall,	
Talked with me from fall to fall;	
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,	        
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,	
Mine, on bending orchard trees,	
Apples of Hesperides!	
Still as my horizon grew,	
Larger grew my riches too;	        
All the world I saw or knew	
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,	
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!	
 
Oh for festal dainties spread,	
Like my bowl of milk and bread;	        
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,	
On the door-stone, gray and rude!	
O’er me, like a regal tent,	
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,	
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,	        
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;	
While for music came the play	
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;	
And, to light the noisy choir,	
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.	        
I was monarch: pomp and joy	
Waited on the barefoot boy!	
 
Cheerily, then, my little man,	
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!	
Though the flinty slopes be hard,	        
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,	
Every morn shall lead thee through	
Fresh baptisms of the dew;	
Every evening from thy feet	
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:	        
All too soon these feet must hide	
In the prison cells of pride,	
Lose the freedom of the sod,	
Like a colt’s for work be shod,	
Made to tread the mills of toil,	        
Up and down in ceaseless moil:	
Happy if their track be found	
Never on forbidden ground;	
Happy if they sink not in	
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.	        
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,	
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
</poem>

[[Category:Poetry]]
[[Category:English literature]]