Classic Poem

It winds o'er prairie and o'er crest,
And tracks of steel now glance
Where once it lured men to the West,
The highway of Romance.

Its furrows now are overgrown
With snowdrift or with flower;
Lost are the graves so thickly sown
By Death in that dim hour.

But when the night has drawn its veil
The teams plod, span on span,
And one sees o'er the long dead trail
A ghostly caravan.