Portrait of a Child
by Louis Untermeyer

Unconscious of amused and tolerant eyes,
He sits among his scattered dreams, and plays.
True to no one thing long; running for praise
With something less than half begun.  He tries
To build his blocks against the furthest skies.
They fall; his soldiers stumble; bet he stays
And plans and struts and laughs at fresh dismays--
Too confident and busy to be wise.

His toys are towns and temples: his commands
Bring forth vast armies trembling at his nod.
He shapes and shatters with impartial hands....
And, in his crude and tireless play, I see
The savage, the creator, and the god--
All that man was and all he hopes to be.

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