Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

     They turned him loose; he bowed his head,
      A felon, bent and grey.
     His face was even as the Dead,
      He had no word to say.

     He sought the home of his old love,
      To look on her once more;
     And where her roses breathed above,
      He cowered beside the door.

     She sat there in the shining room;
      Her hair was silver grey.
     He stared and stared from out the gloom;
      He turned to go away.

     Her roses rustled overhead.
      She saw, with sudden start.
     "I knew that you would come," she said,
      And held him to her heart.

     Her face was rapt and angel-sweet;
      She touched his hair of grey;
          .    .    .    .    .
     BUT HE, SOB-SHAKEN, AT HER FEET,
      COULD ONLY PRAY AND PRAY.

     The Junior God looked from his place
      In the conning towers of heaven,
     And he saw the world through the span of space
      Like a giant golf-ball driven.
     And because he was bored, as some gods are,
      With high celestial mirth,
     He clutched the reins of a shooting star,
      And he steered it down to earth.

     The Junior God, 'mid leaf and bud,
      Passed on with a weary air,
     Till lo! he came to a pool of mud,
      And some hogs were rolling there.
     Then in he plunged with gleeful cries,
      And down he lay supine;
     For they had no mud in paradise,
      And they likewise had no swine.

     The Junior God forgot himself;
      He squelched mud through his toes;
     With the careless joy of a wanton boy
      His reckless laughter rose.
     Till, tired at last, in a brook close by,
      He washed off every stain;
     Then softly up to the radiant sky
      He rose, a god again.

     The Junior God now heads the roll
      In the list of heaven's peers;
     He sits in the House of High Control,
      And he regulates the spheres.
     Yet does he wonder, do you suppose,
      If, even in gods divine,
     The best and wisest may not be those
      Who have wallowed awhile with the swine?

          On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,
          And the home of the wolf shall be my home,
          And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows
          The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!
     I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,
     My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;
     But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;
     Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;
     Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,
     For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;
     But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!
     And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.

     Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane;
     There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet.
     All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain,
     Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat.
     Peace!  I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told;
     By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see;
     Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old,
     Out of the dark I hear it — the Northland calling to me.

     And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where;
     My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird.
     Hark to the rumble of rapids!  Here in my morris chair
     Eager and tense I'm straining — isn't it most absurd?
     Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings,
     Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar;
     Rocks are spitting like hell-cats — Oh, it's a sport for kings,
     Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.

     How I thrill and I vision!  Then my camp of a night;
     Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream;
     Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight,
     Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:
     Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,
     When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!
     Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .
     Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.

     What do I want with dinner?  Can I eat any more?
     Can I sleep as I used to? . . .  Oh, I abhor this life!
     Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor,
     The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife:
     Something to fight and die for — the limpid Lake of the Bear,
     The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell;
     Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair
     How I ache for the Northland!  "Dinner and servants" — Hell!!

     Am I too old, I wonder?  Can I take one trip more?
     Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine,
     Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore,
     Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine?
     Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain?
     Whispering each to the other:  "Many a moon has passed . . .
     Where has he gone, our lover?  Will he come back again?
     Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"

     Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear,
     Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.
     Old am I! what does it matter?  Nothing I would not dare;
     Give me a trail to conquer — Oh, it is "meat" to me!
     I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame;
     Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree;
     Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name:
     I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me.

     Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun;
     Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea;
     Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun;
     Turn me foot-loose like a savage — that is the finish of me.
     I know the trail I am seeking, it's up by the Lake of the Bear;
     It's down by the Arctic Barrens, it's over to Hudson's Bay;
     Maybe I'll get there, — maybe:  death is set by a hair. . . .
     Hark! it's the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . .

          Go to the Wild that waits for me;
          Go where the moose and the musk-ox be;
          Go to the wolf and the secret snows;
          Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!

     They brought the mighty chief to town;
     They showed him strange, unwonted sights;
     Yet as he wandered up and down,
     He seemed to scorn their vain delights.
     His face was grim, his eye lacked fire,
     As one who mourns a glory dead;
     And when they sought his heart's desire:
     "Me like'um tooth same gold," he said.

     A dental place they quickly found.
     He neither moaned nor moved his head.
     They pulled his teeth so white and sound;
     They put in teeth of gold instead.
     Oh, never saw I man so gay!
     His very being seemed to swell:
     "Ha! ha!" he cried, "Now Injun say
     Me heap big chief, ME LOOK LIKE HELL."

     There lies the trail to Sunnydale,
     Amid the lure of laughter.
     Oh, how can we unhappy be
     Beneath its leafy rafter!
     Each perfect hour is like a flower,
     Each day is like a posy.
     How can you say the skies are grey?
     You're wrong, my friend, they're rosy.

     With right good will let's climb the hill,
     And leave behind all sorrow.
     Oh, we'll be gay! a bright to-day
     Will make a bright to-morrow.
     Oh, we'll be strong! the way is long
     That never has a turning;
     The hill is high, but there's the sky,
     And how the West is burning!

     And if through chance of circumstance
     We have to go bare-foot, sir,
     We'll not repine — a friend of mine
     Has got no feet to boot, sir.
     This Happiness a habit is,
     And Life is what we make it:
     See! there's the trail to Sunnydale!
     Up, friend! and let us take it.

     She lay like a saint on her copper couch;
      Like an angel asleep she lay,
     In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch
      Past the Dead and sneak away.

     Then came old Jules of the sightless gaze,
      Who begged in the streets for bread.
     Each day he had come for a year of days,
      And groped his way to the Dead.

     "What's the Devil's Harvest to-day?" he cried;
      "A wanton with eyes of blue!
     I've known too many a such," he sighed;
      "Maybe I know this . . . mon Dieu!"

     He raised the head of the heedless Dead;
      He fingered the frozen face. . . .
     Then a deathly spell on the watchers fell —
      God! it was still, that place!

     He raised the head of the careless Dead;
      He fumbled a vagrant curl;
     And then with his sightless smile he said:
      "It's only my little girl."

     "Dear, my dear, did they hurt you so!
      Come to your daddy's heart. . . ."
     Aye, and he held so tight, you know,
      They were hard to force apart.

     No!  Paris isn't always gay;
      And the morgue has its stories too:
     You are a writer of tales, you say —
      Then there is a tale for you.

     What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
     Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?
     Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
     You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne — what does your madness mean?

     Go home, go home to your clubs, Tom Thorne! home to your evening dress!
     Home to your place of power and pride, and the feast that waits for you!
     Why do you linger all alone in the splendid emptiness,
     Scouring the Land of the Little Sticks on the trail of the caribou?

     Why did you fall off the Earth, Tom Thorne, out of our social ken?
     What did your deep damnation prove?  What was your dark despair?
     Oh with the width of a world between, and years to the count of ten,
     If they cut out your heart to-night, Tom Thorne,
       HER name would be graven there!

     And you fled afar for the thing called Peace,
       and you thought you would find it here,
     In the purple tundras vastly spread, and the mountains whitely piled;
     It's a weary quest and a dreary quest, but I think that the end is near;
     For they say that the Lord has hidden it in the secret heart of the Wild.

     And you know that heart as few men know, and your eyes are fey and deep,
     With a "something lost" come welling back from the raw, red dawn of life:
     With woe and pain have you greatly lain, till out of abysmal sleep
     The soul of the Stone Age leaps in you, alert for the ancient strife.

     And if you came to our feast again, with its pomp and glee and glow,
     I think you would sit stone-still, Tom Thorne, and see in a daze of dream,
     A mad sun goading to frenzied flame the glittering gems of the snow,
     And a monster musk-ox bulking black against the blood-red gleam.

     I think you would see berg-battling shores, and stammer and halt and stare,
     With a sudden sense of the frozen void, serene and vast and still;
     And the aching gleam and the hush of dream,
       and the track of a great white bear,
     And the primal lust that surged in you as you sprang to make your kill.

     I think you would hear the bull-moose call, and the glutted river roar;
     And spy the hosts of the caribou shadow the shining plain;
     And feel the pulse of the Silences, and stand elate once more
     On the verge of the yawning vastitudes that call to you in vain.

     For I think you are one with the stars and the sun,
       and the wind and the wave and the dew;
     And the peaks untrod that yearn to God, and the valleys undefiled;
     Men soar with wings, and they bridle kings, but what is it all to you,
     Wise in the ways of the wilderness, and strong with the strength of the Wild?

     You have spent your life, you have waged your strife
       where never we play a part;
     You have held the throne of the Great Unknown, you have ruled a kingdom vast:
          .    .    .    .    .
     BUT TO-NIGHT THERE'S A STRANGE, NEW TRAIL FOR YOU, AND YOU GO, O WEARY HEART!
     TO THE PEACE AND REST OF THE GREAT UNGUESSED . . .
       AT LAST, TOM THORNE, AT LAST.

     My Father Christmas passed away
     When I was barely seven.
     At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
     I lost my hope of heaven.

     Yet not in either lies the curse:
     The hell of it's because
     I don't know which loss hurt the worse —
     My God or Santa Claus.

       I

     Oh, how good it is to be
     Foot-loose and heart-free!
     Just my dog and pipe and I, underneath the vast sky;
     Trail to try and goal to win, white road and cool inn;
     Fields to lure a lad afar, clear spring and still star;
     Lilting feet that never tire, green dingle, fagot fire;
     None to hurry, none to hold, heather hill and hushed fold;
     Nature like a picture book, laughing leaf and bright brook;
     Every day a jewel bright, set serenely in the night;
     Every night a holy shrine, radiant for a day divine.

     Weathered cheek and kindly eye, let the wanderer go by.
     Woman-love and wistful heart, let the gipsy one depart.
     For the farness and the road are his glory and his goad.
     Oh, the lilt of youth and Spring!  Eyes laugh and lips sing.
                    Yea, but it is good to be
                    Foot-loose and heart-free!

       II

     Yet how good it is to come
     Home at last, home, home!
     On the clover swings the bee, overhead's the hale tree;
     Sky of turquoise gleams through, yonder glints the lake's blue.
     In a hammock let's swing, weary of wandering;
     Tired of wild, uncertain lands, strange faces, faint hands.

     Has the wondrous world gone cold?  Am I growing old, old?
     Grey and weary . . . let me dream, glide on the tranquil stream.
     Oh, what joyous days I've had, full, fervid, gay, glad!
     Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range.
     From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best.
     And if there's a little bit of woman-love with it,
     I will count my life content, God-blest and well spent. . . .
                    Oh but it is good to be
                    Foot-loose and heart-free!
                    Yet how good it is to come
                    Home at last, home, home!

     At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim,
     When Bill Mc'Gee he says to me:  "We've GOT to do it, Jim.
     We've got to make Fort Liard quick.  I know the river's bad,
     But, oh! the little woman's sick . . . why! don't you savvy, lad?"
     And me!  Well, yes, I must confess it wasn't hard to see
     Their little family group of two would soon be one of three.
     And so I answered, careless-like:  "Why, Bill! you don't suppose
     I'm scared of that there 'babbling brook'?  Whatever you say — goes."

     A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper-lined;
     For "barb-wire" was the brand of "hooch" to which he most inclined.
     They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand.
     They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the Barren Land.
     From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere;
     And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire,
     The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hundred skins,
     And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins.

     We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were we,
     That Julie Claire from God-knows-where, and Barb-wire Bill and me.
     From shore to shore we heard the roar the heaving ice-floes make,
     And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed in their wake.
     The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in its stride;
     And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side.
     With sullen din the banks caved in; the shore-ice lanced the stream;
     The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam.
     Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its bed,
     As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we sped.

     But "Faster still!" cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the live-long day
     In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay.
     And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes seem to curse,
     And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew worse.
     And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was plucked with pain,
     And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain.
     And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep:
     "The river's kicking like a steer . . . run out the forward sweep!
     That's Hell-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its roar,
     And . . . I'll be damned! THE ICE IS JAMMED!  We've GOT to make the shore."

     With one wild leap I gripped the sweep.  The night was black as sin.
     The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned us with its din.
     And near and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon boom;
     And swift and strong we swept along to meet our awful doom.
     And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited there,
     My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire;
     And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar,
     And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft ashore.

     The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we scraped and crashed,
     I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it flashed:
     Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill's savage cry:
     "That's my job, lad!  It's me that jumps.  I'll snub this raft or die!"
     I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land;
     I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in hand.
     And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we dashed once more,
     And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its roar.

     Oh God! all's lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain,
     And then — the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain;
     It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!
     And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

     A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it there,
     With all around a hell of sound, and darkness and despair;
     A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone,
     And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman moan;
     And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out,
     Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow shout.
     And yet once more from out the shore I heard that cry of pain,
     A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again.

     That night was hell with all the frills, and when the dawn broke dim,
     I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him.
     I saw a flat and frozen shore of hideous device,
     I saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through the ice.
     And on that treeless, rockless shore I found my partner — dead.
     No place was there to snub the raft, so — HE HAD SERVED INSTEAD;
     And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant fight,
     He'd thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and gripped him tight;
     And there he'd held us back from death, as fast in death he lay. . . .
     Say, boys!  I'm not the pious brand, but — I just tried to pray.
     And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed was I,
     For from the robes that covered her, I — HEARD — A — BABY — CRY. . . .

     Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was given;
     And though no saint on earth, d'ye think —
       Bill's squared hisself with Heaven?

     If you had the choice of two women to wed,
     (Though of course the idea is quite absurd)
     And the first from her heels to her dainty head
     Was charming in every sense of the word:
     And yet in the past (I grieve to state),
     She never had been exactly "straight".

     And the second — she was beyond all cavil,
     A model of virtue, I must confess;
     And yet, alas! she was dull as the devil,
     And rather a dowd in the way of dress;
     Though what she was lacking in wit and beauty,
     She more than made up for in "sense of duty".

     Now, suppose you must wed, and make no blunder,
     And either would love you, and let you win her —
     Which of the two would you choose, I wonder,
     The stolid saint or the sparkling sinner?

     Just think! some night the stars will gleam
      Upon a cold, grey stone,
     And trace a name with silver beam,
      And lo! 'twill be your own.

     That night is speeding on to greet
      Your epitaphic rhyme.
     Your life is but a little beat
      Within the heart of Time.

     A little gain, a little pain,
      A laugh, lest you may moan;
     A little blame, a little fame,
      A star-gleam on a stone.

     Jack would laugh an' joke all day;
     Never saw a lad so gay;
     Singin' like a medder lark,
     Loaded to the Plimsoll mark
     With God's sunshine was that boy;
     Had a strangle-holt on Joy.
     Held his head 'way up in air,
     Left no callin' cards on Care;
     Breezy, buoyant, brave and true;
     Sent his sunshine out to you;
     Cheerfulest when clouds was black —
         Happy Jack!  Oh, Happy Jack!

     Sittin' in my shack alone
     I could hear him in his own,
     Singin' far into the night,
     Till it didn't seem just right
     One man should corral the fun,
     Live his life so in the sun;
     Didn't seem quite natural
     Not to have a grouch at all;
     Not a trouble, not a lack —
         Happy Jack!  Oh, Happy Jack!

     He was plumbful of good cheer
     Till he struck that low-down year;
     Got so thin, so little to him,
     You could most see day-light through him.
     Never was his eye so bright,
     Never was his cheek so white.
     Seemed as if somethin' was wrong,
     Sort o' quaver in his song.
     Same old smile, same hearty voice:
     "Bless you, boys! let's all rejoice!"
     But old Doctor shook his head:
     "Half a lung," was all he said.
     Yet that half was surely right,
     For I heard him every night,
     Singin', singin' in his shack —
         Happy Jack!  Oh, Happy Jack!

     Then one day a letter came
     Endin' with a female name;
     Seemed to get him in the neck,
     Sort o' pile-driver effect;
     Paled his lip and plucked his breath,
     Left him starin' still as death.
     Somethin' had gone awful wrong,
     Yet that night he sang his song.
     Oh, but it was good to hear!
     For there clutched my heart a fear,
     So that I quaked listenin'
     Every night to hear him sing.
     But each day he laughed with me,
     An' his smile was full of glee.
     Nothin' seemed to set him back —
         Happy Jack!  Oh, Happy Jack!

     Then one night the singin' stopped . . .
     Seemed as if my heart just flopped;
     For I'd learned to love the boy
     With his gilt-edged line of joy,
     With his glorious gift of bluff,
     With his splendid fightin' stuff.
     Sing on, lad, and play the game!
     O dear God! . . . no singin' came,
     But there surged to me instead —
     Silence, silence, deep and dread;
     Till I shuddered, tried to pray,
     Said:  "He's maybe gone away."

     Oh, yes, he had gone away,
     Gone forever and a day.
     But he'd left behind him there,
     In his cabin, pinched and bare,
     His poor body, skin and bone,
     His sharp face, cold as a stone.
     An' his stiffened fingers pressed
     Somethin' bright upon his breast:
     Locket with a silken curl,
     Poor, sweet portrait of a girl.
     Yet I reckon at the last
     How defiant-like he passed;
     For there sat upon his lips
     Smile that death could not eclipse;
     An' within his eyes lived still
     Joy that dyin' could not kill.

     An' now when the nights are long,
     How I miss his cheery song!
     How I sigh an' wish him back!
         Happy Jack!  Oh, Happy Jack!

     I know a mountain thrilling to the stars,
     Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;
     Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars,
     Flaunting the vanisht sunset's garnet glow;
     Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;
     Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break;
     Virgin and vestal — Oh, a very Queen!
     And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.

     My lake adores my mountain — well I know,
     For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start,
     Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow,
     Framing her image in its trembling heart;
     Glassing her graciousness of greening wood,
     Kissing her throne, melodiously mad,
     Thrilling responsive to her every mood,
     Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.

     My lake has dreamed and loved since time was born;
     Will love and dream till time shall cease to be;
     Gazing to Her in worship half forlorn,
     Who looks towards the stars and will not see —
     My peerless mountain, splendid in her scorn. . . .
     Alas! poor little lake!  Alas! poor me!

     Moko, the Educated Ape is here,
      The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say,
      And every night the gaping people pay
     To see him in his panoply appear;
     To see him pad his paunch with dainty cheer,
      Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, and sway
      Just like a gentleman, yet all in play,
     Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.

     And as to-night, with noble knowledge crammed,
      I 'mid this human compost take my place,
     I, once a poet, now so dead and damned,
      The woeful tears half freezing on my face:
     "O God!" I cry, "let me but take his shape,
      Moko's, the Blest, the Educated Ape."

       I

     I took the clock down from the shelf;
     "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."
     It lacked a MINUTE of the hour,
     And as I waited all a-cower,
     A skinful of black, boding pain,
     Bits of my life came back again. . . .

          "Mother, there's nothing more to eat —
          Why don't you go out on the street?
          Always you sit and cry and cry;
          Here at my play I wonder why.
          Mother, when you dress up at night,
          Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright;
          Twining a ribband in your hair,
          Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.
          Then I'm as lonely as can be.
          Oh, how I wish you were with me!
          Yet when you go out on the street,
          Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . ."

       II

     For days the igloo has been dark;
     But now the rag wick sends a spark
     That glitters in the icy air,
     And wakes frost sapphires everywhere;
     Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like
     Dart here and there, yet fear to strike
     The gruesome gloom wherein THEY lie,
     My comrades, oh, so keen to die!
     And I, the last — well, here I wait
     The clock to strike the hour of eight. . . .

          "Boy, it is bitter to be hurled
          Nameless and naked on the world;
          Frozen by night and starved by day,
          Curses and kicks and clouts your pay.
          But you must fight!  Boy, look on me!
          Anarch of all earth-misery;
          Beggar and tramp and shameless sot;
          Emblem of ill, in rags that rot.
          Would you be foul and base as I?
          Oh, it is better far to die!
          Swear to me now you'll fight and fight,
          Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night. . . ."

       III

     Curse this silence soft and black!
     Sting, little light, the shadows back!
     Dance, little flame, with freakish glee!
     Twinkle with brilliant mockery!
     Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor!
     Jewel the bear-skin of the door!
     Gleam in my beard, illume my breath,
     Blanch the clock face that times my death!
     But do not pierce that murk so deep,
     Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep!
     But do not linger where they lie,
     They who had all the luck to die! . . .

          "There is nothing more to say;
          Let us part and go our way.
          Since it seems we can't agree,
          I will go across the sea.
          Proud of heart and strong am I;
          Not for woman will I sigh;
          Hold my head up gay and glad:
          You can find another lad. . . ."

       IV

     Above the igloo piteous flies
     Our frayed flag to the frozen skies.
     Oh, would you know how earth can be
     A hell — go north of Eighty-three!
     Go, scan the snows day after day,
     And hope for help, and pray and pray;
     Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat;
     Melt water with your body's heat;
     Sleep all the fell, black winter through
     Beside the dear, dead men you knew.
     (The walrus blubber flares and gleams —
     O God! how long a minute seems!) . . .

          "Mary, many a day has passed,
          Since that morn of hot-head youth.
          Come I back at last, at last,
          Crushed with knowing of the truth;
          How through bitter, barren years
          You loved me, and me alone;
          Waited, wearied, wept your tears —
          Oh, could I atone, atone,
          I would pay a million-fold!
          Pay you for the love you gave.
          Mary, look down as of old —
          I am kneeling by your grave." . . .

       V

     Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go;
     Bitten his eyes were by the snow;
     Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue,
     So that he died before I knew.
     Here in those poor weak arms he died:
     "Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied;
     "For I will watch till Spring come round;
     Slumber you shall beneath the ground."
     Oh, how I lied!  I scarce can wait:
     Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! . . .

          "Comrade, can you blame me quite?
          The horror of the long, long night
          Is on me, and I've borne with pain
          So long, and hoped for help in vain.
          So frail am I, and blind and dazed;
          With scurvy sick, with silence crazed.
          Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate,
          Avid for Death I wait, I wait.
          Oh if I falter, fail to fight,
          Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?" . . .

       VI

     Big Eric gave up months ago.
     But seldom do men suffer so.
     His feet sloughed off, his fingers died,
     His hands shrunk up and mummified.
     I had to feed him like a child;
     Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled,
     Talked of his wife and little one
     (Thanks be to God that I have none),
     Passed in the night without a moan,
     Passed, and I'm here, alone, alone. . . .

          "I've got to kill you, Dick.
          Your life for mine, you know.
          Better to do it quick,
          A swift and sudden blow.
          See! here's my hand to lick;
          A hug before you go —
          God! but it makes me sick:
          Old dog, I love you so.
          Forgive, forgive me, Dick —
          A swift and sudden blow. . . ."

       VII

     Often I start up in the dark,
     Thinking the sound of bells to hear.
     Often I wake from sleep:  "Oh, hark!
     Help . . . it is coming . . . near and near."
     Blindly I reel toward the door;
     There the snow billows bleak and bare;
     Blindly I seek my den once more,
     Silence and darkness and despair.
     Oh, it is all a dreadful dream!
     Scurvy and cold and death and dearth;
     I will awake to warmth and gleam,
     Silvery seas and greening earth.
     Life is a dream, its wakening,
     Death, gentle shadow of God's wing. . . .

          "Tick, little clock, my life away!
          Even a second seems a day.
          Even a minute seems a year,
          Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer
          Into my face so charnel white,
          Lit by the devilish, dancing light.
          Tick, little clock! mete out my fate:
          Tortured and tense I wait, I wait. . . ."

       VIII

     Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh:
     When it strikes eight, I die, I die.
     Raise up the gun — it stings my brow —
     When it strikes eight . . . all ready . . . NOW —

     Down from my hand the weapon dropped;
     Wildly I stared. . . .
                    THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED.

       IX

     Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone.
     Peace seems to nestle in my brain.
     Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on;
     Heart-sick I was, and less than sane.
     Yet do I scorn the thing I planned,
     Hearing a voice:  "O coward, fight!"
     Then the clock stopped . . . whose was the hand?
     Maybe 'twas God's — ah well, all's right.
     Heap on me darkness, fold on fold!
     Pain! wrench and rack me!  What care I?
     Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold!
     I will await my time to die;
     Looking to Heaven that shines above;
     Looking to God, and love . . . and love.

       X

     Hark! what is that?  Bells, dogs again!
     Is it a dream?  I sob and cry.
     See! the door opens, fur-clad men
     Rush to my rescue; frail am I;
     Feeble and dying, dazed and glad.
     There is the pistol where it dropped.
     "Boys, it was hard — but I'm not mad. . . .
     Look at the clock — it stopped, it stopped.
     Carry me out.  The heavens smile.
     See! there's an arch of gold above.
     Now, let me rest a little while —
     LOOKING TO GOD AND LOVE . . . AND LOVE. . . ."

     I just think that dreams are best,
      Just to sit and fancy things;
      Give your gold no acid test,
     Try not how your silver rings;
     Fancy women pure and good,
      Fancy men upright and true:
      Fortressed in your solitude,
     Let Life be a dream to you.

     For I think that Thought is all;
      Truth's a minion of the mind;
      Love's ideal comes at call;
     As ye seek so shall ye find.
     But ye must not seek too far;
      Things are never what they seem:
      Let a star be just a star,
     And a woman — just a dream.

     O you Dreamers, proud and pure,
      You have gleaned the sweet of life!
      Golden truths that shall endure
     Over pain and doubt and strife.
     I would rather be a fool
      Living in my Paradise,
      Than the leader of a school,
     Sadly sane and weary wise.

     O you Cynics with your sneers,
      Fallen brains and hearts of brass,
      Tweak me by my foolish ears,
     Write me down a simple ass!
     I'll believe the real "you"
      Is the "you" without a taint;
      I'll believe each woman too,
     But a slightly damaged saint.

     Yes, I'll smoke my cigarette,
      Vestured in my garb of dreams,
      And I'll borrow no regret;
     All is gold that golden gleams.
     So I'll charm my solitude
      With the faith that Life is blest,
      Brave and noble, bright and good, . . .
     Oh, I think that dreams are best!