By parents I would not be pinned,
Nor in my home abide,
For I was wanton as the wind
And tameless as the tide;
So scornful of domestic hearth,
And bordered garden path,
I sought the wilder ways of earth,
The roads of wrath.
It scares me now to think of how
Foolhardily I fared;
Though mighty scarred of pelt and pow
A dozen deaths I’ve dared;
Yet there are trails I would explore,
And wilds that for me wait . . .
Alas! I’ll wander nevermore,–
The hour’s too late.
The folks are at my picture show,
I smoke my pipe and sigh.
Soft-slippered by the ember’s glow
A baby-sitter I.
Behold! In dressing-gown of mauve,
To comfort reconciled,
A rover rocks the cradle of
His new grand-child.