A hundred days, a hundred nights— The goal is farther than before, And all the changing shades and lights Are wrought in fancy’s woof no more. The sun is weary overhead, And pallid deserts round you spread A sorrowful eternity; And if some grisly mountain here Confront your march with forms of fear, You turn aside and pass them by. And all are overworn—the flesh Is now a frayed and faded mesh That will not mask the inward flame; There is no longer any care To round the speech, or speak men fair, Or any gentle sense of shame; The hearts of all are shifted through— The grain drops through the windy husks And false lights flick’ring round the true Are quenched at last in dews and dusk. And some are silent, some are loud And rage like beasts among the crowd,— And some are mild, and some are sharp In word and deed, and snarl and carp, And fret the camp with petty broils; And some of temper, sweet and bland, Do seem to bear a magic wand That wins the secret of their toils— Rare souls that waste like sandal-wood In many a fragrant deed and mood; And some invoke the wrath of God, Or feign to kiss the burning rod,— And some, may be, with better prayers, Stand up in all their griefs and cares And clinch their teeth, and do and die Without a whine, a curse or cry. And so the dust and grit and stain Of travel wears into the grain; And so the hearts and souls of men Were darkly tried and tested then That, in the happy after years, When rainbows gild remembered tears, Should any friend inquire of you If such or such an one you knew— I hear the answer, terse and grim, “Ah, yes; I crossed the plains with him!”