A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play –
  For May is here once more, and so is he, –
  His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
  Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
  Of woody pathways winding endlessly
Along the creek, where even yesterday
He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook –
  Yet called the water “warm,” with never lack
Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
  Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, –
  His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back
Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.