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.

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

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

Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark.

No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success; If he thinks he is a winner, then he is.

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

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse.