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.