“I WON’T be long,” the Little Boy said,
As he clattered him down the stair,
And found him a hat for his curly head
And called to a dog somewhere.
Then off like a flash down the shady lane
With a whistle and cry and song;
And back to us ever it came again:
“I won’t be gone very long.”

“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
As we saw him among the trees,
His eyes all bright and his cheeks all red,
A friend of the birds and bees;
Then through the hedges and out of the gate,
For naught in the world goes wrong
With a boy of six or seven or eight—
“I won’t be gone very long.”

“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
“I’m just going out to play.”
And the curly dog barked and the two of them sped
Over the clover away.
He waved us a kiss with a little brown hand
And cries rose from here and there,
For oh, but a boy does understand
A dog and the open air!

“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
“Don’t wait any supper—you see,
I’ll just have a bowl of milk and bread
And my dog he will eat with me.”
Then he swung his hat on its tangled string
Till the curly dog wagged his tail
And romped and played like a boy in spring
And barked him a comrade’s hail.

“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said—
Oh, Mother of him, don’t cry!
The leaves come green again, yellow and red,
And the years and the years go by.
But sometime he’ll come, as we’ve seen him do,
With the bark of a dog and a song,
For it must be true—oh, it must be true
That he’ll not be gone very long!