But the men who will fill all its pages with glory
Will be mostly the lads from the Emerald Isle!
THE PATH
It winds its way along the shaded hill,
Disdaining distance, seeking only ease.
It turns aside to linger by a rill,
It climbs a slope to rest beneath the trees
Or breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.
Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown—
The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed;