Page:The Man with the Hoe, Markham, 1900.djvu/101

Rh I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget

Life's hoard of regret—

All the terror and pain

Of the 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 airy 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! 73