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Poem	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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