ISSUE: Spring 1925
When first I strove, none came to aid,
And how I strove none cared,
It was the same to man or maid
Whether I feared or dared.
And so I grew a hardy thing
And held my way alone,
And now in joy my song I sing
And call my soul my own.
Oh, I have learned ‘tis good at last
To face the whelming odds,
Let others trust to oar and mast,
My fate be with the gods!
