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.

_Another day_.

Framed in hedgerows of emerald, the wheat glows with a caloric fervor,
as if gorged with summer heat. In the vivid green of pastures old women
are herding cows. Calm and patient are their faces as with gentle
industry they bend over their knitting. One feels that they are
necessary to the landscape.

To gaze at me the field-workers suspend the magnificent lethargy of
their labors. The men with the reaping hooks improve the occasion by
another pull at the cider bottle under the stook; the women raise
apathetic brown faces from the sheaf they are tying; every one is a
study in deliberation, though the crop is russet ripe and crying to be
cut.

Then on I go again amid high banks overgrown with fern and honeysuckle.
Sometimes I come on an old mill that seems to have been constructed by
Constable, so charmingly does Nature imitate Art. By the deserted
house, half drowned in greenery, the velvety wheel, dipping in the
crystal water, seems to protest against this prolongation of its toil.

Then again I come on its brother, the Mill of the Wind, whirling its
arms so cheerily, as it turns its great white stones for its master, the
floury miller by the door.

These things delight me. I am in a land where Time has lagged, where
simple people timorously hug the Past. How far away now seems the
welter and swelter of the city, the hectic sophistication of the
streets. The sense of wonder is strong in me again, the joy of looking
at familiar things as if one were seeing them for the first time.

The Wonderer

I wish that I could understand
The moving marvel of my Hand;
I watch my fingers turn and twist,
The supple bending of my wrist,
The dainty touch of finger-tip,
The steel intensity of grip;
A tool of exquisite design,
With pride I think: "It's mine! It's mine!"

Then there's the wonder of my Eyes,
Where hills and houses, seas and skies,
In waves of light converge and pass,
And prin