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.

A promise made is a debt unpaid.

The only society I like is rough and tough, and the tougher the better. There's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.

I remember little of the Yukon or what I wrote there.

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

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.

Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.