There's a bump on his brow and a smear on his cheek <br /> That is plainly the stain of his tears; <br />At his neck there's a glorious sun-painted streak, <br /> The bronze of his happiest years. <br />Oh, he's battered and bruised at the end of the day, <br /> But smiling before me he stands, <br />And somehow I like to behold him that way. <br /> Yes, I like him with dirt on his hands. <br /> <br />Last evening he painfully limped up to me <br /> His tale of adventure to tell; <br />He showed me a grime-covered cut on his knee, <br /> And told me the place where he fell. <br />His clothing was stained to the color of clay, <br /> And he looked to be nobody's lad, <br />But somehow I liked to behold him that way, <br /> For it spoke of the fun that he'd had. <br /> <br />Let women-folk prate as they will of a boy <br /> Who is heedless of knickers and shirt; <br />I hold that the badge of a young fellow's joy <br /> Are cheeks that are covered with dirt. <br />So I look for him nightly to greet me that way, <br /> His joys and misfortunes to tell, <br />For I know by the signs that he wears of his play <br /> That the lad I'm so fond of is well.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pleasure-s-signs/
