In the dawn beyond dream when I woke up for real
And stepped out with my passion to make my ideal,
When I’d shyly grown almost a man in mine eyes
And the shadows of doubts seemed awfully unwise;
When I’d faced with hard cheer all the challenging days
Of a future of silence that gives naught of praise,
Nor of thoughtfulness ever, nor ever a word
Not of sarcasm’s slights that a sweet verse incurred,
When I knew even then I was oddest of men,
Pushing poems up a hill once again and again,
Then I knew I was master of space and of time—
My own space and my place, my own work and my climb—
And that nothing men did could e’er make me despair
(For the songs of my breath are above common air),
Then in freedom of spirit I leaped to pursue
All the music of joy in a life I gave true.
And the poems don’t roll back, but bound high up on top,
And the playing of “push me” (a play that won’t stop)
Is that spring of the boy in me making me strong,
In good sense of me wide, in the stride of me long,
Till a gold star of unity, youthful and bright,
I do shower my songs through the darkness of night,
And my winds laugh aloud, and my hill-branches swing,
And It’s I, the young odd one, who’s skyhood is king,
And my leap-height is proven by lines of my pen
That is writing and writing again and again,
And as long as there’s ink and a paper that’s bare
I will sign on the glory of poetry there!

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