With careless ease, lithe, supple, lissome, free,
He sways the rein with adolescent grace,
And Youth is in the ardor of his face;
His eyes are wells of Life's expectancy,
The romance of the wonder yet to be!
What will he lose or win before his race
Is gained or lost? Shall honor or disgrace
Crown or defame his fine, fair chivalry?
Go, Rider! Fare unto the Golden West —
And though the Master, with unerring hand,
Hath fashioned that the frowning Dark Tower stand
So sadly close — Fear not — your gallant breast
Shall never shrink before the prison wall —
No fetters could your spirit high enthrall!