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Of scaly nets and salty men.html">men in overalls of brown.html">brown; By little nestling beaches where the gorse goes blazing down; Of scorn of angry sunsets, and of Carnac grim and bare; When I come back to Montparnasse and dream.html">dream of Finistere. I have no goal. When I am weary I stop at some ~auberge~; on my spirit. No subduing of the mind.html">mind to the task of the moment. a laureate of the under-dog. I will write books, a score of them. in making them come true.html">true. Yet when we do make them come true, do we owe to dreams? I have in mind one old chap who used to herd the sheep Old David Smail He dreamed away his hours in school; The master reckoned him a fool, You'd find him loafing by the stream; And just pretend to fish . . . and dream. His brothers passed him in the race; He did not seem to heed, his face Abstractedly through life he went; And yet he seemed to be content. I see him now, so old and gray, And though he faltered on the way, "And is Life done so soon?" he sighed; I've loved it all . . ." -- and so he died. as if gorged with summer heat. In the vivid green of pastures as with gentle industry they bend over their knitting. of their labors. The men with the reaping hooks improve the occasion the women raise apathetic brown faces from the sheaf they are tying; and crying to be cut. Then on I go again amid high banks overgrown with fern and honeysuckle. by Constable, so charmingly does Nature imitate Art. By the deserted house, seems to protest against this prolongation of its toil. .

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