Classic Poem

There's an open plain to southward
Heaped up with a crusty snow,
Drift on drift where the gales uplift
And toss o'er the flats below,
Where the sun flings down his jeweled crown
And the ice fields thieve its glow.

There's a figure lithe and stalwart
That comes o'er the slopes alone,
He tramps along with a step made strong
By muscle, and brain, and bone,
Robust his form, and his heart as warm
As lights from a ruby thrown.

There's a pathway onward stretching
From him to the sun a'set
It lies and gleams like a thing in dreams,
Unmarred by his snowshoe yet,
Turn where he may, there lies the way
Of gold for his feet to fret.

There's a long, long track behind him,
Fields lie to the fore unpressed,
He marks his way by the sun's clear ray
And follows it with a zest,
The phantom glows o'er the roadless snow,
'Twixt him and the yellow west.