Classic Poem

'T IS the wane of the moon and the midsummer revels are ended,
And Autumn has burnished the vale with an indolent hand;
And the breeze of the morn with the breath of adventuring blended,
Wakes a song in my heart as I dream of a far-away land.

So I'll up with the sun while the city is torpid in slumber;
Let the wind wash the reek of the factory smoke from my clothes;
For I've worked like a stamp in the mill leaden days without number,
And I'm off to the land where the bloom of the almond-tree blows.

To the land of the West, where the blue, where the ultimate ranges
Sun their cloud-muffled shoulders and sit with their feet in the sea;
Where the way of the world drifts along without too many changes,
And a man without money has friends — if he cares to be free.

With the little I'll have when I get there I'll buy me a pony,
A pinto cayuse that knows trails and the trick of the rope,
And he'll be my singular, faithful old stand-by and crony —
When we're tired of the valley we'll cinch up and ride for the slope.

We will camp on the crest of the foothills that run to the mountains,
On the side where the sun disappears down the slope of the sea;
And we'll watch as the tide shatters sky-ward in thundering fountains,
While the stars find their places and shine through the sycamore tree.

We will follow the song of the meadow-lark out to the grazing;
The dim mountain meadow, knee-deep with the greenest of grass, —
Or we'll creep round the ledge where the little red wild-flower is blazing
And drop down to Eden and trout through the Porcupine Pass.

Call it prospecting, loafing, surveying, or simply just living,
Never think it's the lure of the gold that keeps calling me on;
Merely taking the gifts mother nature to all men is giving,
Yes, even the last, the long rest, with a smile. When I'm gone....

When I'm gone? Well, the mountains are monuments grander than glory;
And a canon's a tomb that's as noble as any they've made.
Let the eagle that feathers the blue tell the ocean the story,
When the pinto strays dragging a rope down the Porcupine grade.

Call it prospecting? Maybe it is. And I know when it's ended,
And I climb the Divide and report on the use of my claim,
I won't get much credit for anything noble or splendid;
But He knows why I turned from the town to the open-air game.