PORTRAIT OF A BOY

by: Stephen Vincent Benét

FTER 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, sweeping

A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before

In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,

Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor

Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

 

Warm sands flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light

Splashed the white grains like blood. Pas the cave's mouth

Shone 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 gold

Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,

Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,

A black chest bore the skull and bones in white

Above 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!"

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