The Cyclist’s Farewell to his Steed.
My beautiful, my bicycle! that standest patient by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy back, ’twould please a critic’s eye,
Fret not to roam the country o’er with all thy willing speed,
I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my iron steed.
Fret not; thy modern Stanley head, held high in breezy ind,
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy handling now, thy master hath his gold—
To thee, my bicycle, farewell,—thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.
Farewell; from me those wired wheels full many a mile must roam,