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Robert W Service - Portrait
Work rating: Low

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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