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Poem	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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