When twenty-one I loved to dream, <br /> And was to loafing well inclined; <br />Somehow I couldn't get up steam <br /> To welcome work of any kind. <br />While students burned the midnight lamp, <br /> With dour ambition as their goad, <br />I longed to be a gayful tramp <br /> And greet adventure on the road. <br /> <br />But now that sixty years have sped, <br /> Behold! I toil from morn to night. <br />The thoughts that teem into my head <br /> I pray: God give me time to write. <br />With eager and unflagging pen <br /> No drudgery of desk I shirk, <br />And preach to all retiring men <br /> The gospel of unceasing work. <br /> <br />And yet I do not sadly grieve <br /> Such squandering of golden days; <br />For from my dreaming I believe <br /> Have stemmed my least unworthy lays. <br />Aye, toil is best when all is said, <br /> As age has made me understand . . . <br />So fitly fold, when I am dead, <br /> A pencil in my hand.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/work-5/
