The crowded street his playground is, a patch of blue his sky; <br /> A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by: <br /> Poor little orphan boy of five, the city smoke and grime <br /> Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time; <br /> And he is just as your boy is, a child who loves to play, <br /> Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away. <br /> And he would like the open fields, for often in his dreams <br /> The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams, <br /> Where he may sail a splendid boat, sometimes he flies a kite, <br /> Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might; <br /> But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more <br /> That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor. <br /> <br /> Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at "make-pretend," <br /> The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send <br /> Their little boys and girls to play, a barrel is his boat, <br /> But, oh, the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat; <br /> And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems <br /> He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams. <br /> <br /> Poor little orphan boy of five, except that he is pale, <br /> With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail, <br /> Just like that little boy of yours, with same desire to play, <br /> Fond of the open fields and skies, he's built the self-same way; <br /> But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams, <br /> His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-orphan/
