For speech or mood, or drink or food may be a curse at will,
Though, rightly weighed, they only aid the cup of life to fill.
I hold that the silent sea and plain, the mountain, wood, and
down.
Are better haunts for the feet of men than the streets of the
roaring town,
And that those who tread for the price of bread in the thronging
hives of toil
Will stronger grow with the more they know of the kiss of the
virgin soil.
I hold that our sons should learn to love, not gods of gold and
greed,
But the virile men of brain and brawn who served our country's
need,
And should more delight in a clean-cut fight, stout blade and
courage whole,
That the morbid skill of a critic's drill in the core of a sin-sick
soul.