There are many things that boys may know-- Why this and that are thus and so,-- Who made the world in the dark and lit The great sun up to lighten it: Boys know new things every day-- When they study, or when they play,-- When they idle, or sow and reap-- But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. Boys who listen--or should, at least,-- May know that the round old earth rolls East;-- And know that the ice and the snow and the rain-- Ever repeating their parts again-- Are all just water the sunbeams first Sip from the earth in their endless thirst, And pour again till the low streams leap.-- But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. A boy may know what a long glad while
It has been to him since the dawn's first smile, When forth he fared in the realm divine Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine;-- He may know each call of his truant mates, And the paths they went,--and the pasture-gates Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep.-- But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. O I have followed me, o'er and o'er, From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor, To the pleading voice of the mother when I even doubted I heard it then-- To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room, And dewy odors of locust-bloom-- A sweet white cot--and a cricket's cheep.-- But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.