Classic Poem

Up with the lark in the first flush of morning,
Ere the world wakes to its work or its play;
Off for a spin to the wide-stretching country,
Far from the close, stifling city away.

A spring to the saddle, a spurt with the pedal,
The roadway is flying from under my wheel.
With motions so sprightly, with heart beating lightly,
How glorious to master this creature of steel!

Now mounting the hill-slope with slow, steady toiling,
Each turn of the wheel brings us nearer the goal.
And so on life's journey 'tis patient endeavor
That opens the path to the conquering soul.

The summit surmounted, we're now wildly dashing
Through woodland and meadow, past farm-house and dell;
Inhaling the breath of the field and the forest,
Keeping time as we glide to the tinkling cow-bell.

Lo! at length in the cast, 'mid the radiant glory,
Great Phoebus Apollo looks forth, bright and fair,
Attended by cloudlets all roseate and golden;
Oh, joy, to be out on a morning so rare!

As we mount the last hill, to the smoke-clouded city,
Just beginning to boil with its great human tide,
It calls us to toil, and to enter the conflict,—
So endeth this morning our twenty-mile ride.