A Teacher

My pretty-boy,

My naughty boy,

My ponyboy with pony head

And lion heart;

Who pricks his ears

For visitors;

Who lifts his head to look at me,

Then trots from me;

Who drops his head

And plods along;

Who makes me work to make him work;

Who likes small ones;

Who turns his face

To see his left;

Who sees his space with better eye

Than my two can;

Whose naughty tricks,

Reserved for we

Who can yet learn what he can teach

Have long taught me;

Who will take charge

Unless you do;

Who will not go until you press;

Who makes you fly;

Who opens up

Like stubborn bloom

As you lead him; who leads you, too,

Unknown to you;

Who's toiled long

And labored for

And sent on those who've larger grown

Upon his back.