The boy is seed of fire
Which, when it grows, will burn;
A tiny spark that soon
To awful flame may turn.
First woman. Let the little lion go, dear. I will give you another plaything.
Boy. Where is it? Give it to me. (He stretches out his hand.)
King (looking at the hand.) He has one of the imperial birthmarks! For
Between the eager fingers grow
The close-knit webs together drawn,
Like some lone lily opening slow
To meet the kindling blush of dawn.
Second woman. Suvrata, we can't make him stop by talking. Go. In my cottage you will find a painted clay peacock that belongs to the hermit-boy Mankanaka. Bring him that.
First woman. I will. (Exit.) Boy. Meanwhile I'll play with this one.
Hermit-woman (looks and laughs). Let him go.
King. My heart goes out to this wilful child. (Sighing.)
They show their little buds of teeth
In peals of causeless laughter;
They hide their trustful heads beneath
Your heart. And stumbling after
Come sweet, unmeaning sounds that sing
To you. The father warms
And loves the very dirt they bring
Upon their little forms.