The Wanderlust Has Got Me... By The

Alas! The Road To Anywhere Is Pitfalled With Disaster; There's Hunger, Want, And Weariness, Yet O We Loved It So! As On We Tramped Exultantly, And No Man Was Our Master, And No Man Guessed What Dreams Were Ours, As, Swinging Heel And Toe, We Tramped The Road To Anywhere, The Magic Road To Anywhere, The Tragic Road To Anywhere, Such Dear, Dim Years Ago.

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

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

Write Verse, Not Poetry. The Public Wants Verse. If You Have A Talent For Poetry, Then Don't By Any Means Mother It, But Try Your Hand At Verse.

And Each Forgets, As He Strips And Runs With A Brilliant, Fitful Pace, It's The Steady, Quiet, Plodding Ones Who Win In The Lifelong Race. And Each Forgets That His Youth Has Fled, Forgets That His Prime Is Past, Till He Stands One Day, With A Hope That's Dead, In The Glare Of The Truth At Last.