Editing DeathintheArctic
DeathintheArctic. By RobertService. '''DEATH IN THE ARCTIC''' 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. . . .'' <<skip>> 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! . . . <<skip>> 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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Editing DeathintheArctic