I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
Onward I ride in the blowing oats,
Checking the field lark's rippling notes--
Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;
O'er my head through branches high
Come glimpses of deep blue sky;
The tall oats brush my horse's flanks:
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;
A bee booms out of the scented grass;
A jay laughs with me as I pass.
I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life's hoard of regret--
All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.
Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate--the skies expand;
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;
I ride with the voices of waterfalls.
I swing on as one in a dream--I swing.
Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.
The world is gone like an empty word;
My body's a bough in the wind,--my heart a bird.
--_Edwin Markham._
[15] By permission from Edwin Markham's "Joy of the Hills
and Other Poems," copyright by Doubleday & McClure, New
York.