NOT ALWAYS TO THE SWIFT

            

The final day of swimming class

Was scheduled for a race,

To see which child would come in first

And save his parents’ face.

 

Her little son the backstroke swam

So far before the rest,

That surely he would win the day

And prove himself the best.

 

But as he swam he glanced above

His shoulder to the sky,

Then slowed down, floating on his back,

A dream before his eyes.

 

And everybody else swam past,

Too much intent to pause

Before the finish line, to see

Just what the matter was.

 

But when the race was over with,

His mother asked him, “Dear,

What ever were you thinking of

That made you dawdle there?”

 

“Oh, Mom,” he smiled angelically,

“Up yonder in the sky

Was such a lovely golden cloud,

I couldn’t pass it by.

 

“I lay there on my back and seemed

Along with it to run,

Just soaring into seas of blue,

Toward the rising sun!”