Work

 When twenty-one I loved to dream,
 And was to loafing well inclined;
Somehow I couldn't get up steam
 To welcome work of any kind.

While students burned the midnight lamp,
 With dour ambition as their goad,
I longed to be a gayful tramp
 And greet adventure on the road.


But now that sixty years have sped,
 Behold! I toil from morn to night.

The thoughts that teem into my head
 I pray: God give me time to write.

With eager and unflagging pen
 No drudgery of desk I shirk,
And preach to all retiring men
 The gospel of unceasing work.


And yet I do not sadly grieve
 Such squandering of golden days;
For from my dreaming I believe
 Have stemmed my least unworthy lays.

Aye, toil is best when all is said,
 As age has made me understand .
 .
 .

So fitly fold, when I am dead,
 A pencil in my hand.

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