Old David Smail

He dreamed away his hours in school;      He sat with such an absent air,      The master reckoned him a fool,      And gave him up in dull despair.      When other lads were making hay      You'd find him loafing by the stream;      He'd take a book and slip away,      And just pretend to fish . . . and dream.      His brothers passed him in the race;      They climbed the hill and clutched the prize.      He did not seem to heed, his face      Was tranquil as the evening skies.      He lived apart, he spoke with few;      Abstractedly through life he went;      Oh, what he dreamed of no one knew,      And yet he seemed to be content.      I see him now, so old and gray,      His eyes with inward vision dim;      And though he faltered on the way,      Somehow I almost envied him.      At last beside his bed I stood:      "And is Life done so soon?" he sighed;      "It's been so rich, so full, so good,      I've loved it all . . ." - and so he died.