The Trail of the Goldseekers

Excerpt from The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse

Anticipation

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.