A promise made is a debt unpaid.
The happy man is he who knows his limitations, yet bows to no false gods.
Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.
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.
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
No man can be a failure if he thinks he’s a success; If he thinks he is a winner, then he is.
The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lonely mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fate.
The only society I like is rough and tough, and the tougher the better. There’s where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.
Avoid extremes: be moderate In saving and in spending; An equable and easy gait Will win an easy ending.
Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.
His life, though none too long, Was never dull: Of woman, wine and song Bill had his full.
I have an intense dislike for artificial society. In France, one could lead a free life – to do what one wanted to do without interference or criticism from one’s neighbors.
Ah! the clock is always slow; it is later than you think.
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.
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.
I have no doubts that the Devil grins, As seas of ink I spatter. Ye gods, forgive my “literary” sins – The other kind don’t matter.
Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark.
I remember little of the Yukon or what I wrote there.
Carry on! Carry on! Fight the good fight and true; Believe in you mission, greet life with a cheer;.
Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter’s chime Will ring the curtain down on you.
On the ragged edge of the world I’ll roam. And the home of the wolf will be my home.