POETRY.
Nor ever shall words express it, the song that is in my heart, A saga, swept from the distance, horizons beyond the hill, Singing of life and endurance, and bidding me bear my part.
For this is Song, as I sing it, the song that I love the best,
The steady tramp in the furrow, the grind of the gleaming steel, An anthem sung to the noonday, a chant of the open West, Echoing deep, in my spirit, to gladden and help and heal.
And this is Life, as I read it, and Life, in its fairest form, To breathe the wind on the ranges, the scent of the upturned sod,
To stride, and strive, and be thankful, to weather the shine and storm,
Pencilling, over the prairies, the destiny planned by God.
And no reward do I ask for, save only to work and wait.
To praise the God of my fathers, to labour beneath His sky, To dwell alone in His greatness, to strike and to follow straight, Silent, and strong, and contented—the limitless plains and I.
H. H. BAMFORD.
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