And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

This is the law of the Yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive.

His life, though none too long, Was never dull: Of woman, wine and song Bill had his full.

The Wanderlust has got me... by the belly-aching fire

I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me.

Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.

Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.