A Boy's Whistle 

If I could whistle like I used when I was just a boy,

And fill the echoes just plumb full of that old-fashioned joy,

I guess that I'd be willing then to turn my back on things

And say farewell to scenes down here and try my angel wings;

Oh, just once more to pucker up, and ripple soft, and trill,

Until the music seemed to brush against the far-off hill,

Like dew falls on a half-blown rose, till it gets full and slips

Like jewels trickling, tinkling down from pink, bewitching lips,

Oh, yes, if I could whistle now like I could whistle then!

Just pucker up these grim old lips and turn things loose again!

I'd like to sit up on the knoll where trees were all around,

Just sit there punching my bare toes into the smelly ground,

And trilling the same sweet old tune I used to trill of yore,

With all the verve and ecstasy which comes not any more,

Until I'd see old brown throat thrush come stealing from

            his bush,

And look about like he would say, say to the whole world,

            "Hush!"

If I could whistle now I'd like to go along the road,

Awaking with my whistle shrill the scene which once I knowed;

Just send the rippling music through the tamaracks and pines,

And stirring all the blossoms on the morning glory vines;

Just go sending all about me, all behind me, and before,

First loud and shrill as anything, and then a-getting lower,

The same old whistle that was mine, the same old carol shrill

That used to bid the day goodnight and mock the whippoorwill,

I saw a boy go past just now-his cheeks were like balloons,

And all the air was rendered sweet by well-remembered tunes;

And all the world sat lightly on that selfish, happy imp;

His trousers were all patched behind, his hat was torn and limp,

While one big toe which had been stubbed was twisted in a rag,

But he stepped high, with head well up and shoulders full

            of brag;

And whistled in the same old way that I was wont to do,

Till all my heart was in the tunes the little rascal blew,

If I could whistle like I did-but now there's something gone;

The trill is gone; the skill is gone; sometimes when I'm alone

I pucker and purse up my lips and try, and try, and try,

And the noise I contrive to make is nothing but a sigh;

It is no thing of learning, cannot be contrived by art;

A boy must be behind it, and a great big boyish heart;

A boy just out of heaven must go whistling of the song;

No use in trying when we're old, we've been away too long,

Poems for Declamation Table of Content