Death in the Arctic

    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. . . ."