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

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