The Trail

It measures the boundless distance, Led by wild ways that run Hither and thither in chase of the Winds That worship the Northern Sun: The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.

In the dip of the far horizon Trembles the Morning Star; To the heights of the fathomless ether Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar; The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.

No sound in that void of Silence Save call of bird to its mate, Or cry of the lone coyote At the bars of hunger's gate; And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.

The Trail hath a storied splendor: Tepee and Indian Mound; Where the glory of God is chanted By no sacrilegious sound; Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound!

Here the haunts of men are bounden By the links of Custom's chain; There you find embosomed freedom In the heart's exquisite pain, And thereafter will be heard the cry, "O, give me the wilds again!"

The Trail hath no languorous longing; It leads to no Lotus land; On its way dead Hopes come thronging To take you by the hand; He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command!