I have to admit to feeling a bit wistful. I stumbled across some lovely lines by Jon Silkin yesterday, which seemed to suit:
The young boy shoves off for lunch, whistling -
his little pipes, the unbroken larynx, are reeds
of cheerfulness, earth for him so much down,
fluff, a mantle, on the bellowing cheeks.
It's from a poem called The Winter Bees, which has flashes of beauty whilst being generally impenetrable, much like these lines. I can't find it online so may post it some time.