Classic Poem

This is the toy, beyond Aladdin's dreaming,
The magic wheel upon whose hub is wound
All roads, although they reach the world around,
O'er western plains or orient deserts gleaming.

This is the skein from which each day unravels
Such new delights, such witching flights, such joys
Of bounding blood, of glad escape from noise,
Such ventures beggaring old Crusoe's travels.

It is as if some mighty necromancer,
At king's command, to please his lady's whim,
Instilled such virtue in a rubber rim
And brought it forth as his triumphant answer.

For wheresoe'er its shining spokes are fleeting
Fair benefits spring upward from its tread,
And eyes grow bright and cheeks all rosy red,
Responsive to the heart's ecstatic beating.

Thus youth and age, alike in healthful feeling,
And man and maid who find their paths are one
Crown this rare product of our century's “run”
And sing the health, the joy, the grace of wheeling.