James Whitcomb Riley

One naked star has waded throughThe purple shadows of the night,
And faltering as falls the dew
It drips its misty light.

I have sipped, with drooping lashes,
Dreamy draughts of Verzenay;
I have flourished brandy-smashes
In the wildest sort of way;
I have joked with 'Tom and Jerry'
Till wee hours ayont the twal'--
But I've found my tea the very
Safest tipple of them all!

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.