祝福你，小家伙，光着脚的孩子，晒黑了的脸颊!你的裤腿翘起，你那欢快的口哨;你的红唇，被山上的草莓吻得更红;阳光照在你的脸上，透过你撕裂的帽檐的欢快优雅;我从心里给你欢乐——我曾经是一个光着脚的孩子!你是王子，只有成年人才是共和主义者。让那百万美元来吧!光着脚，跟在他身边，你有他买不到的东西，在耳朵和眼睛的范围内，-外在的阳光，内心的快乐:祝福你，光着脚的孩子!呵，为了少年时代无痛的玩耍，为了在欢声笑语的日子里醒来的睡眠，为了嘲弄医生的条条框条的健康，为了学校里从未学过的知识，为了野蜂的晨间追逐，为了野花的时间和地点，为了鸟儿的飞翔，为了林中居民的习性;乌龟是怎样背壳的，土拨鼠是怎样挖窝的，鼹鼠是怎样打井的; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, - Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!