The Westerner

  My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,
    And each one sleeps alone.
  Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,
    For I choose to make my own.
  I lay proud claim to their blood and name,
    But I lean on no dead kin;
  My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,
  And the world began when I was born
    And the world is mine to win.

  They built high towns on their old log sills,
    Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,
  But with new, live rock from the savage hills
    I'll build as they only dreamed.
  The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies,
    Till the rails glint down the pass;
  The desert springs into fruit and wheat
  And I lay the stones of a solid street
    Over yesterday's untrod grass.

  I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth
    Or the way he makes his prayer.
  I grant him a white man's room on earth
    If his game is only square.
  While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;
    If he cheats I drop him flat.
  Old class and rank are a wornout lie,
  For all clean men are as good as I,
    And a king is only that.

  I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state
    That will spoon me out my food.
  A stout heart sings in the fray with fate
    And the shock and sweat are good.
  From noon to noon all the earthly boon
    That I ask my God to spare
  Is a little daily bread in store,
  With the room to fight the strong for more,
    And the weak shall get their share.

  The sunrise plains are a tender haze
    And the sunset seas are gray,
  But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze
    Over me and the big today.
  What good to me is a vague "may be"
    Or a mournful "might have been,"
  For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn
  And the world began when I was born
    And the world is mine to win.

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