South, where the sullen black mountains guard Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun, Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard, Laughing or cursing, we rode and won. Drunk with the virgin white fire of you, Hotter than thirst was desire of you; Straight in our faces you burned your brand, Marking your chosen ones, young, young land. When did we long for the sheltered gloom Of the older game with its cautious odds? Gloried we always in sun and room, Spending our strength like the younger gods. By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, By the pain that tested the man in us, By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, You were our true-love, young, young land. When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays, Richer and statelier then you'll reign, Mother of men whom the world will praise. And your sons will love you and sigh for you, Labor and battle and die for you, But never the fondest will understand The way we have loved you, young, young land. [Illustration: "_Born of a free, world-wandering race,_ _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._"] THE WESTERNER My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, And each one sleeps alone. Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, For I choose to make my own. I lay proud claim to their blood and name, But I lean on no dead kin; My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. They built high towns on their old log sills, Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, But with new, live rock from the savage hills I'll build as they only dreamed. The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, Till the rails glint down the pass; The desert springs into fruit and wheat And I lay the stones of a solid street Over yesterday's untrod grass. I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth Or the way he makes his prayer. I grant him a white man's room on earth If his game is only square. While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; If he cheats I drop him flat. Old class and rank are a wornout lie, For all clean men are as good as I, And a king is only that. I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state That will spoon me out my food. A stout heart sings in the fray with fate And the shock and sweat are good. From noon to noon all the earthly boon That I ask my God to spare Is a little daily bread in store, With the room to fight the strong for more, And the weak shall get their share.