Kind little lad, with dark, disordered hair,
Who, friendly-wise, forsake your half-built fort
To make me in the sand a high-backed chair,
So kind, so keen to join the livelier sport—
Haste to your trenches! Fly! To arms! to arms!
The foe prepares to storm your citadel;
Your comrades sound excursions and alarms,
And those stout hands must fight that build so well.
Laugh, happy soul!—nor dream you brought me tears.
His beauty had you not—for that the earth
Holds not his equal—but you had his years,
Almost his eyes, and something of his mirth;
And one stray lock on your bare neck that curled
Made sudden twilight of the summer world.