Classic Poem

A city child, rooms are to him no mere
Places to live in. Each one has a clear
Color and character of its own. His toys
And tumbled books made the small bed-room seem
The place to build a practicable dream.
He likes the brilliant parlor and enjoys
Nothing so much as bringing other boys
To romp among the delicate furniture,
And brush within an inch of ivories, lamps,
And other things not held by iron clamps,
Like chinese vases, neatly insecure.
His father's library with its heavy tone
Seldom detains him, for he has his own.
He views the kitchen with a hungry eye
And loafs about it, nibbling on the stray
Dry crumbs of gossip that may drop his way,
Standing so innocently inattentive. Sly
And with a squirrel's curiosity,
Careless of barred or sacred corners, he
Hunts back of shelves until he finds the key
With which to open bureau-drawers and pry
Into forbidden desks and cupboards—there
Are scores of mysteries forbidden, new,
And so well hidden, they need looking through.
But most of all he likes the bath-room where
The panel mirror shows his four feet two,
Where, with a towel or bath-robe, he can strike
A hundred attitudes not only like
His printed heroes but the gods themselves.
Stripping himself he dreams and dances there,
The pink embodiment of Peter Pan.
Or changing to an older superman
He turns to Siegfried brandishing his sword
And Jason snatching at the Golden Fleece.
The figures crowd around him and increase:
Now he is David battling for the Lord,
Mixing his battle-cries with psalms of peace.
Now he is Mowgli, at the cobra's hoard
With black Bagheera. Swiftly he has drawn
Excalibur from its invisible sheath.
He is Ulysses on his native heath,
Tristram, Tom Sawyer and Bellerophon;
Cadmus about to sow the dragon's teeth;
The shining Parsifal who knew no sin;
Sir Launcelot and Huckleberry Finn;
George Washington and Captain Hook and Thor;
Hansel awaking in the magic wood;
Frank Merriwell, John Silver, Robin Hood—
He is all these and half a hundred more.
He scowls and strides, he utters harsh commands;
Great armies follow him to new-born lands,
Battling for treasures lost or glories gone.
None can withstand the thunder of his frown;
His eye is terrible; the walls go down.
Cries of the conquered mingle with the cheers.
While through the clash and battle-smoke he hears—
“Richard! Get through! And put your stockings on!”