The Millionaire
John Barrow.
1908

A mountaineer; I climb the dangerous ways,
Too high for pity, Calm Content can see.
Upon his daily rounds no track of me,
I tread the golden sun's alluring rays,
Through sleepless nights and long, long anxious days,
With promises of rest beneath some tree.
To view the world and from its cares be free,
But ever the goal, like mirage mocks my gaze.

Thus do we climb from steep to steep, away,
Staining the lonely mountains with our blood,
All those who only climb from day to day,
Feel not the stormy nights—the panic flood,
Or know, when we at last retrace our way,
Old friends have gone—old loves—and every good.