In the call of the swift foot pack;
In the arrow’s flight and the sword-blade’s kiss,
In the hoofs drumming down the track.
In the stress of work that makes our world,
In the days of the tautened trace;
In the task that we finish clean and fair,
With a laugh in Death’s dark face.
I believe in the friendships held so dear,
Children’s laughter and men’s grave smiles,
In the pleasures shared and the sorrows halved,