Victorian cycling poem inside card

Inside: A Song of the Wheel When the air is rushing past us, and our ride has just begun, With the hard white road beneath us, and above, the blazing sun, What a happiness is in us, what a joy is it we feel, When it's ride, ride, ride, a-riding on the wheel. We are racing down the roadway, passing tree and field, Tell us not of other pastimes, and the pleasures that they yield. For we now are racing madly, nimbly working toe and heel, For it's race, race, race, a-racing on the wheel. There's a heavenly sky above us, and Nature laughs aloud! In our little rustic arbor we forget the "madding crowd." But now we must be stirring, and down the street we steal, And it's ring, ring, ring, of the bell above the wheel. But it isn't always "scorching," and my cycle's pace is slow, When the one who cycles with me is the lady that I know, With face divine, a perfect form, a heart as true as steel, Oh, it's love, love, love, it's Cupid on the wheel. When Old Time has cycled past me, and my ride is almost done, And my life will all be evening, and above, the setting sun, I shall watch the roving cyclist, I shall still be full of zeal, 'Twill be glad, glad, glad, glad memories of the wheel. —Arthur H. Lawrence, 1896