Читать книгу The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse - Garland Hamlin - Страница 4

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I will wash my brain in the splendid breeze,

I will lay my cheek to the northern sun,

I will drink the breath of the mossy trees,

And the clouds shall meet me one by one.

I will fling the scholar's pen aside,

And grasp once more the bronco's rein,

And I will ride and ride and ride,

Till the rain is snow, and the seed is grain.

The way is long and cold and lone—

But I go.

It leads where pines forever moan

Their weight of snow,

Yet I go.

There are voices in the wind that call,

There are hands that beckon to the plain;

I must journey where the trees grow tall,

And the lonely heron clamors in the rain.

Where the desert flames with furnace heat,

I have trod.

Where the horned toad's tiny feet

In a land

Of burning sand

Leave a mark,

I have ridden in the noon and in the dark.

Now I go to see the snows,

Where the mossy mountains rise

Wild and bleak—and the rose

And pink of morning fill the skies

With a color that is singing,

And the lights

Of polar nights

Utter cries

As they sweep from star to star,

Swinging, ringing,

Where the sunless middays are.