That was the last poor rag of babyhood:
The way his bed stank like a fox's set;
That easy flow of innocence he could
Let fall from him while all his body slept.
We do him wrong to colonize his dreams!
Can we afford to lose that alienness,
Those strange, limestone-bright coasts, lands without names,
And brush away his wilds with a caress?
Lately he sat up in the barber's chair
Swathed like a businessman, and smiled with such
Clownish lopsidedness that I laughed there
In the saloon to see this Stan Laurel, much
Reduced, his face wide open, his cropped hair;
And afterwards could scarce forbear to touch.
The way his bed stank like a fox's set;
That easy flow of innocence he could
Let fall from him while all his body slept.
We do him wrong to colonize his dreams!
Can we afford to lose that alienness,
Those strange, limestone-bright coasts, lands without names,
And brush away his wilds with a caress?
Lately he sat up in the barber's chair
Swathed like a businessman, and smiled with such
Clownish lopsidedness that I laughed there
In the saloon to see this Stan Laurel, much
Reduced, his face wide open, his cropped hair;
And afterwards could scarce forbear to touch.
