Portrait

 Because life's passing show
 Is little to his mind,
There is a man I know
 Indrawn from human kind.

His dearest friends are books;
 Yet oh how glad he talks
To birds and trees and brooks
 On lonely walks.

He takes the same still way
 By grove and hill and sea;
He lives that each new day
 May like the last one be.

He hates all kinds of change;
 His step is sure and slow:
Though life has little range
 He loves it so.


He makes it his one aim
 His pleasure to repeat;
To always do the same,
 Since sameness is so sweet;
In simple things to find
 The dearest to his mood.

His true life in his mind
 Is oh so good!

Please leave him to his dream,
 This old, unweary man,
Who shuns the busy stream
 And has outlived his span.

Just leave him on his shelf
 To watch the world go by .
 .
 .

Because he is--myself:
 Yea, such be I.

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