(Lines written in 1909 in honor of John Muir)
By Henry Meade Bland
A spirit that pulses forever like the fiery heart of a boy;
A forehead that lifts to the sunlight and is wreathed forever in joy;
A muscle that holds like the iron that binds in the prisoner steam;
Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream!
An eye that catches the splendor as it shines from mountain and sky;
And an ear that awakes to the song of the storm as it surges on high;
A sense that garners the beauty of sun, moon, or starry gleam;
Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!