"The Men That Don't Fit In"

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest.
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight, they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed;
he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win.
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred to the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

-Robert Service

I'm off for the North Shore this morning. Whenever I go on these little trips alone I tend to feel these little pangs of guilt for leaving Patti behind. I know she worries a lot and I always promise to be careful. My hope is that she understands why I love doing the things I do and why from time to time I just need to do them alone.