Gold! We sprang from our stools.
The Ballad of Gum-Boot Ben
He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.
Clancy of the Mounted Police
In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
Lost
"Black is the sky, but the land is white--
L'Envoi
We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,
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To the Man of the High North
My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming
I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream,
Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming,
Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam.
I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices
From peak snow-diademed to regal star;
Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices,
The pregnant voices of the Things That Are.
The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us;
The gold-delirium, the ferine strife;
The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us;
Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life.
The nameless men who nameless rivers travel,
And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone;
The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel
The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone.
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