Here’s his ragged “roundabout,”
Turn the pockets inside out;
See: his pen-knife, lost to use,
Rusted shut with apple-juice;
Here, with marbles, top and string,
Is his deadly “devil-sling,”
With its rubber, limp at last,
As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax—buckles—leather straps—
Bullets, and a box of caps,—
Not a thing of all, I guess,
But betrays some waywardness—
E’en these tickets, blue and red,
For the Bible verses said—
Such as this his memory kept—
“Jesus wept.”
* * * * * *
Here’s the little coat—but O!
Where is he we’ve censured so!
Don’t you hear us calling, dear?
Back! come back, and never fear.
You may wander where you will,
Over orchard, field and hill;
You may kill the birds, or do
Anything that pleases you!
Ah, this empty coat of his!
Every tatter worth a kiss;
Every stain as pure instead
As the white stars overhead;
And the pockets—homes were they
Of the little hands that play
Now no more—but, absent, thus
Beckon us.