"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And, from a quiver full of such as these, The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are men, The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: Such answer household ends; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood; hardens them; From circumstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! "The song is old and simple that I sing; Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, And the free ocean, still the days are good; Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity And knocks at every door of but or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide Of interrupted wassail roared along; But Leif, the son of Eric, sat apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; lint then with that resolve his heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe Of day and night across the unventured seas, Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands The first rune in the Saga of the West. FLOWERS