Never a mark may scorn me,
From the noise of the rising quail
To the topmost peak where the eagles seek
Their home in the driving gale.
Where lies the last least wilderness
Man may not dare to know—
Where stands the unscaled mountain,
Fair crowned with virgin snow:
Where hide the hidden ages—
Where flow the golden streams—
Where lurks the land of Crœsus
Or the Lotus-land o dreams:
Up through the rushing firmament,
With never halt or toll,
I bear ye far till ye come where are
The gates of the cherished goal.
. . . . . . . . . .
On the wonderful things I show you
Lucullus-like ye dine—
For the wonderful thoughts I bring you
Ye love and are wholly mine.
PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO
If you meet a little fräulein
As pretty as a rosebud,
And eyes that make your silly heart-strings
Thump and bump and glow—
Don’t stand and linger dawdlin’
When you know you’re getting maudlin,
But call yourself a bally fool
And pack your trunk and go.
If the mocking, hollow laughter,
Like the creaking of a rafter,
Greets you—standing watching after
At the Chance you didn’t know:
Sneering in its craven power
Comes to seek you by the hour,
Try the palm-grove, veldt or paddy—
Pack your trunk and go.
If the skies are rent asunder
O’er some hasty little blunder,
And you start to really wonder
How wise some people grow:
Let the empty carp-heads haggle—
Let the teacup headwear waggle—
Just tell ’em all to run along—
And pack your trunk and go.
If the silent blades are dipping
And the green canoes are slipping
By the birches white and dripping
In the crimson after-glow:
And the harvest-moon is rising
With a fullness most surprising—
It’s summer on the northern lakes
So pack your trunk and go.