There’s not a wind that brushes the long bright fields of corn,
    Or, shrieking, drives the broken wreck beneath a blackened sea,
  There’s not a wind that draws the rain across the face of morn
    That does not rise when I arise and sink again with me.

Young Blood

  They took me from the forests and they put me in the town;
  They bid me learn the wisdom the wise men have laid down,
    To put by my childish ways
    And forget my Golden Days,
  With my feet upon the ladder that runs up to high renown.

  So I would not hear the voices that were calling day and night,
  And I would not see the visions that were ever in my sight;
    But I mingled with the throngs,
    Heard their curses and their songs,
  And raised the brimming glass on high to catch the yellow light.

  But I was not meant to wander where the wild things never came,
  Where the night-time was like day-time and the seasons were the same;
    Where the city’s sullen roar
    Ever surged against my door,
  And the only peace was battle and the only goal was fame.

  For my blood pulsed hot within me and the prize seemed wondrous small;
  And my soul cried out for freedom in a world beyond a wall. 
    Oh, fame can well be sung
    By those no longer young,
  By wisdom, age and learning; but youth transcends them all!

  So I’ll let the spring of life well up and drown the empty quest;
  And I’ll watch the stars more bright than fame gleam red along the crest;
    And taste the driving rain
    Between my lips again,
  And know that to the blood of youth the open road is best.

  With Spring-time in the woodlands will my pulses stir and thrill;
  I’ll run below the wet young moon where myriad frogs pipe shrill;
    I’ll forget the world of strife,
    Where fame is more than life;
  And I’ll mate with youth and beauty when the sun is on the hill.

The Homesteader

  Mother England, I am coming, cease your calling for a season,
    For the plains of wheat need reaping, and the thrasher’s at the door. 
  All these long years I have loved you, but you cannot call it treason
    If I loved my shack of shingles and my little baby more.

  Now my family have departed—­for the good Lord took them early—­
    And I turn to thee, O England, as a son that seeks his home. 
  Now younger folk may plough and plant the plains I love so dearly,
    Whose acres stretch too wide for feet that can no longer roam.

  If the western skies are bluer and the western snows are whiter,
    And the flowers of the prairie-lands are bright and honey-sweet,
  ’Tis the scent of English primrose makes my weary heart beat lighter
    As I count the days that part me from your little cobble street.