I Remember Little Of The Yukon Or

It Isn't The Mountain Ahead That Wears You Out; It's The Grain Of Sand In Your Shoe.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.

Then You've A Hunch What The Music Meant . . . Hunger And Night And The Stars.

The Happy Man Is He Who Knows His Limitations, Yet Bows To No False Gods.

Now A Promise Made Is A Debt Unpaid, And The Trail Has Its Own Stern Code.