DeathintheArctic. By RobertService.


 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. . . .


 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! . . . 


 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, Joeled 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. . . . 

 more to come...

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Last edited December 31, 2001 17:46 (diff)