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Poem	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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