Classic Poem

A little prince of long ago
The day that he was six
Put away his birthday toys,
His soldiers, trains and bricks.

And stealing down the golden stair,
His slippers in his hand,
He from the shady courtyard stepped
Into a sunlit land.

And sitting there beside the wall
He buttoned up his shoes
And wondered — looking up and down
Which highway should he choose.

When by there rode a gipsy boy,
His pony dark as he,
Who smiled upon the little Prince
So golden-fair to see.

" Where are you riding, gipsy boy,
This lovely summer day? "
" Over the hills and through the woods
To the land of Far-Away. "

" Who is your father, gipsy boy?
For mine, you know, is king,
And I shall be like him one day
And wear his crown and ring. "

" My father, " said the gipsy boy,
" He also is a king.
Although he sits upon no throne
And wears no crown or ring.

" He's king of all the gipsy-folk
Twixt here and Far-Away,
And I, who am his eldest son,
Shall be a king some day. "

" May I go with you, gipsy boy,
To ride your little horse,
To see your tents and caravans
Between the golden gorse?

" There I could run without my shoes
And climb your forest trees,
I seem to smell your smoky fires
Of crackling twigs and leaves. "

Within the Palace voices call,
The gates are opened wide,
The kindly watchmen see the Prince
And beckon him inside.

The gipsy smiles and shakes his head,
He jerks the pony's rein;
" When you and I are kings, " he says,
" Then we shall meet again. "