Portrait of a Boy
After the whipping he crawled into bed,Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.How funny uncle’s hat had looked striped red!He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweepingA black, frayed rag of tattered cloud beforeIn scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floorFat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.
Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson lightSplashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave’s mouthShone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,The crooked constellations of the South;Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of goldGlowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,Beside webbed purples from some galleon’s hold,A black chest bore the skull and bones in whiteAbove a scrawled “Gunpowder!” By the flames,Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.“Doubloons!” they said. The words crashed gold. “Doubloons!”