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A SONG TO THE VALIANT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I'll walk on the storm-swept side of the hill
Last Line: In the orient's fine, swift fashion.


I'LL walk on the storm-swept side of the hill
In my young days, in my strong days,
In the days of ardent pleasure.
I'll go where the winds are fierce and chill --
On the storm-swept side of the daring hill --
And there will I shout my song-lays
In a madly tumbling measure.
Hilloo the dusk,
And hilloo the dark!
The wind hath a tusk
And I wear its mark.
The day's last spark hath a valiant will:
Hilloo the dark on the wind-swept hill!
From the hour of pain
Two joys we gain --
The strife and the after-leisure.

When the fang of the wind is bared and white,
In the strong days, in the wild days,
In the days that laugh at sorrow,
I love to wander the hills at night --
When the gleaming fang of the wind is white --
Nor yearn a whit for the mild days,
Or the ease of life to borrow.
Hilloo the whine
In the pungent cone
Of the dreaming pine
On the hill alone!
The bare trees moan with a dead thing's cry,
And their skeletons crawl along the sky,
Like a dinosaur
Who would live once more
In the flesh that blooms to-morrow.

I'll walk on the sheltered side of the hill
In my old days, in my cold days,
As the sap of life is waning.
I'll find a road where the trees are still --
On the sheltered side of the placid hill --
And dream a dream of the bold days
When the leash of Time was straining.
Adieu the snows,
And the fang that rips!
And hilloo the rose
With her velvet lips!
Where the brown bee sips with his gorgeous lust
I'll pay earth back with her borrowed dust;
Nor shall I grieve
At the clay I leave,
But joy in the gifts I'm gaining.

Lord, hear Thou the prayer of a poet's soul,
In his fire days, when his lyre plays,
And his song is swift with passion!
Give to him prowess to near the goal
While his limbs are firm and his sight is whole.
Make brief his stay in the dire days
When the paling heart is ashen.
The storm-swept sides
Of the hill belong
To the soul that rides
To the gates of song;
May his days be long where the wild winds play;
On the sheltered side let him briefly stay.
When his muse grows dumb
Let the darkness come
In the Orient's fine, swift fashion.





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