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.

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