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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508278" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Death In The Arctic</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I took the clock down from the shelf;<br>"At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."<br>It lacked a minute of the hour,<br>And as I waited all a-cower,<br>A skinful of black, boding pain,<br>Bits of my life came back again. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Mother, there's nothing more to eat --<br>Why don't you go out on the street?<br>Always you sit and cry and cry;<br>Here at my play I wonder why.<br>Mother, when you dress up at night,<br>Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright;<br>Twining a ribband in your hair,<br>Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.<br>Then I'm as lonely as can be.<br>Oh, how I wish you were with me!<br>Yet when you go out on the street,<br>Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For days the igloo has been dark;<br>But now the rag wick sends a spark<br>That glitters in the icy air,<br>And wakes frost sapphires everywhere;<br>Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like<br>Dart here and there, yet fear to strike<br>The gruesome gloom wherein they lie,<br>My comrades, oh, so keen to die!<br>And I, the last -- well, here I wait<br>The clock to strike the hour of eight. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Boy, it is bitter to be hurled<br>Nameless and naked on the world;<br>Frozen by night and starved by day,<br>Curses and kicks and clouts your pay.<br>But you must fight! Boy, look on me!<br>Anarch of all earth-misery;<br>Beggar and tramp and shameless sot;<br>Emblem of ill, in rags that rot.<br>Would you be foul and base as I?<br>Oh, it is better far to die!<br>Swear to me now you'll fight and fight,<br>Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night. . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Curse this silence soft and black!<br>Sting, little light, the shadows back!<br>Dance, little flame, with freakish glee!<br>Twinkle with brilliant mockery!<br>Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor!<br>Jewel the bear-skin of the door!<br>Gleam in my beard, illume my breath,<br>Blanch the clock face that times my death!<br>But do not pierce that murk so deep,<br>Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep!<br>But do not linger where they lie,<br>They who had all the luck to die! . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"There is nothing more to say;<br>Let us part and go our way.<br>Since it seems we can't agree,<br>I will go across the sea.<br>Proud of heart and strong am I;<br>Not for woman will I sigh;<br>Hold my head up gay and glad:<br>You can find another lad. . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Above the igloo piteous flies<br>Our frayed flag to the frozen skies.<br>Oh, would you know how earth can be<br>A hell -- go north of Eighty-three!<br>Go, scan the snows day after day,<br>And hope for help, and pray and pray;<br>Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat;<br>Melt water with your body's heat;<br>Sleep all the fell, black winter through<br>Beside the dear, dead men you knew.<br>(The walrus blubber flares and gleams --<br>O God! how long a minute seems!) . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Mary, many a day has passed,<br>Since that morn of hot-head youth.<br>Come I back at last, at last,<br>Crushed with knowing of the truth;<br>How through bitter, barren years<br>You loved me, and me alone;<br>Waited, wearied, wept your tears --<br>Oh, could I atone, atone,<br>I would pay a million-fold!<br>Pay you for the love you gave.<br>Mary, look down as of old --<br>I am kneeling by your grave." . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go;<br>Bitten his eyes were by the snow;<br>Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue,<br>So that he died before I knew.<br>Here in those poor weak arms he died:<br>"Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied;<br>"For I will watch till Spring come round;<br>Slumber you shall beneath the ground."<br>Oh, how I lied! I scarce can wait:<br>Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Comrade, can you blame me quite?<br>The horror of the long, long night<br>Is on me, and I've borne with pain<br>So long, and hoped for help in vain.<br>So frail am I, and blind and dazed;<br>With scurvy sick, with silence crazed.<br>Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate,<br>Avid for Death I wait, I wait.<br>Oh if I falter, fail to fight,<br>Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?" . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Big Eric gave up months ago.<br>But seldom do men suffer so.<br>His feet sloughed off, his fingers died,<br>His hands shrunk up and mummified.<br>I had to feed him like a child;<br>Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled,<br>Talked of his wife and little one<br>(Thanks be to God that I have none),<br>Passed in the night without a moan,<br>Passed, and I'm here, alone, alone. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"I've got to kill you, Dick.<br>Your life for mine, you know.<br>Better to do it quick,<br>A swift and sudden blow.<br>See! here's my hand to lick;<br>A hug before you go --<br>God! but it makes me sick:<br>Old dog, I love you so.<br>Forgive, forgive me, Dick --<br>A swift and sudden blow. . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Often I start up in the dark,<br>Thinking the sound of bells to hear.<br>Often I wake from sleep: "Oh, hark!<br>Help . . . it is coming . . . near and near."<br>Blindly I reel toward the door;<br>There the snow billows bleak and bare;<br>Blindly I seek my den once more,<br>Silence and darkness and despair.<br>Oh, it is all a dreadful dream!<br>Scurvy and cold and death and dearth;<br>I will awake to warmth and gleam,<br>Silvery seas and greening earth.<br>Life is a dream, its wakening,<br>Death, gentle shadow of God's wing. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Tick, little clock, my life away!<br>Even a second seems a day.<br>Even a minute seems a year,<br>Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer<br>Into my face so charnel white,<br>Lit by the devilish, dancing light.<br>Tick, little clock! mete out my fate:<br>Tortured and tense I wait, I wait. . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh:<br>When it strikes eight, I die, I die.<br>Raise up the gun -- it stings my brow --<br>When it strikes eight . . . all ready . . . now --</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down from my hand the weapon dropped;<br>Wildly I stared. . . .<br> THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone.<br>Peace seems to nestle in my brain.<br>Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on;<br>Heart-sick I was, and less than sane.<br>Yet do I scorn the thing I planned,<br>Hearing a voice: "O coward, fight!"<br>Then the clock stopped . . . whose was the hand?<br>Maybe 'twas God's -- ah well, all's right.<br>Heap on me darkness, fold on fold!<br>Pain! wrench and rack me! What care I?<br>Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold!<br>I will await my time to die;<br>Looking to Heaven that shines above;<br>Looking to God, and love . . . and love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hark! what is that? Bells, dogs again!<br>Is it a dream? I sob and cry.<br>See! the door opens, fur-clad men<br>Rush to my rescue; frail am I;<br>Feeble and dying, dazed and glad.<br>There is the pistol where it dropped.<br>"Boys, it was hard -- but I'm not mad. . . .<br>Look at the clock -- it stopped, it stopped.<br>Carry me out. The heavens smile.<br>See! there's an arch of gold above.<br>Now, let me rest a little while --<br>Looking to God and Love . . .and Love . . ."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508278" data-title="Death In The Arctic de Robert William Service" data-description="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, ..."></div> </div> </div>
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