Because life's passing show <br /> Is little to his mind, <br />There is a man I know <br /> Indrawn from human kind. <br />His dearest friends are books; <br /> Yet oh how glad he talks <br />To birds and trees and brooks <br /> On lonely walks. <br />He takes the same still way <br /> By grove and hill and sea; <br />He lives that each new day <br /> May like the last one be. <br />He hates all kinds of change; <br /> His step is sure and slow: <br />Though life has little range <br /> He loves it so. <br /> <br />He makes it his one aim <br /> His pleasure to repeat; <br />To always do the same, <br /> Since sameness is so sweet; <br />In simple things to find <br /> The dearest to his mood. <br />His true life in his mind <br /> Is oh so good! <br /> <br />Please leave him to his dream, <br /> This old, unweary man, <br />Who shuns the busy stream <br /> And has outlived his span. <br />Just leave him on his shelf <br /> To watch the world go by . . . <br />Because he is--myself: <br /> Yea, such be I.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/portrait-4/
