WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED
By A. J. Waterhouse
Sometimes ’long after supper my grandsire used to sit
Where the sunbeams through the window things of beauty liked to knit,
And he’d light his pipe and sit there in a sort of waking dream,
While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sunlight’s pretty scheme;
And then, whatever happened, he didn’t seem to see,
And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle me,
And I would often wonder what pleasant inner theme
Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when grandpa used to dream.