Lost

“Black is the sky, but the land is white —

( O the wind, the snow and the storm! ) —

Father, where is our boy to-night?

Pray to God he is safe and warm.”

“Mother, mother, why should you fear?

Safe is he, and the Arctic moon

Over his cabin shines so clear —

Rest and sleep,‘ twill be morning soon.”

“It's getting dark awful sudden. Say, this is mighty queer!

Where in the world have I got to? It's still and black as a tomb.

I reckoned the camp was yonder, I figured the trail was here —

Nothing! Just draw and valley packed with quiet and gloom;

Snow that comes down like feathers, thick and gobby and gray;

Night that looks spiteful ugly — seems that I've lost my way.

“The cold's got an edge like a jackknife — it must be forty below;

Leastways that's what it seems like — it cuts so fierce to the bone.

The wind's getting real ferocious; it's heaving and whirling the snow;

It shrieks with a howl of fury, it dies away to a moan;

Its arms sweep round like a banshee's, swift and icily white,

And buffet and blind and beat me. Lord! it's a hell of a night.

“I'm all tangled up in a blizzard. There's only one thing to do —

Keep on moving and moving; it's death, it's death if I rest.

Oh, God! if I see the morning, if only I struggle through,

I'll say the prayers I've forgotten since I lay on my mother's breast.

I seem going round in a circle; maybe the camp is near.

Say! did somebody holler? Was it a light I saw?

Or was it only a notion? I'll shout, and maybe they'll hear —

No! the wind only drowns me — shout till my throat is raw.

“The boys are all round the camp-fire wondering when I'll be back.

They'll soon be starting to seek me; they'll scarcely wait for the light.

What will they find, I wonder, when they come to the end of my track —

A hand stuck out of a snowdrift, frozen and stiff and white.

That's what they'll strike, I reckon; that's how they'll find their pard,

A pie-faced corpse in a snowbank — curse you, do n't be a fool!

Play the game to the finish; bet on your very last card;

Nerve yourself for the struggle. Oh, you coward, keep cool!

“I'm going to lick this blizzard; I'm going to live the night.

It can n't down me with its bluster — I'm not the kind to be beat.

On hands and knees will I buck it; with every breath will I fight;

It's life, it's life that I fight for — never it seemed so sweet.

I know that my face is frozen; my hands are numblike and dead;

But oh, my feet keep a-moving, heavy and hard and slow;

They're trying to kill me, kill me, the night that's black overhead,

The wind that cuts like a razor, the whipcord lash of the snow.

Keep a-moving, a-moving; do n't, do n't stumble, you fool!

Curse this snow that's a-piling a-purpose to block my way.

It's heavy as gold in the rocker, it's white and fleecy as wool;

It's soft as a bed of feathers, it's warm as a stack of hay.

Curse on my feet that slip so, my poor tired, stumbling feet —

I guess they're a job for the surgeon, they feel so queerlike to lift —

I'll rest them just for a moment — oh, but to rest is sweet!

The awful wind cannot get me, deep, deep down in the drift.”

“Father, a bitter cry I heard,

Out of the night so dark and wild.

Why is my heart so strangely stirred?

‘ Twas like the voice of our erring child.”

“Mother, mother, you only heard

A waterfowl in the locked lagoon —

Out of the night a wounded bird —

Rest and sleep,‘ twill be morning soon.”

Who is it talks of sleeping? I'll swear that somebody shook

Me hard by the arm for a moment, but how on earth could it be?

See how my feet are moving — awfully funny they look —

Moving as if they belonged to a someone that was n't me.

The wind down the night's long alley bowls me down like a pin;

I stagger and fall and stagger, crawl arm-deep in the snow.

Beaten back to my corner, how can I hope to win?

And there is the blizzard waiting to give me the knockout blow.

Oh, I'm so warm and sleepy! No more hunger and pain.

Just to rest for a moment; was ever rest such a joy?

Ha! what was that? I'll swear it, somebody shook me again;

Somebody seemed to whisper: “Fight to the last, my boy.”

Fight! That's right, I must struggle. I know that to rest means death;

Death, but then what does death mean?— ease from a world of strife.

Life has been none too pleasant; yet with my failing breath

Still and still must I struggle, fight for the gift of life.

Seems that I must be dreaming! Here is the old home trail;

Yonder a light is gleaming; oh, I know it so well!

The air is scented with clover; the cattle wait by the rail;

Father is through with the milking; there goes the supper-bell.

Mother, your boy is crying, out in the night and cold;

Let me in and forgive me, I'll never be bad any more:

I'm, oh, so sick and so sorry: please, dear mother, do n't scold —

It's just your boy, and he wants you.... Mother, open the door....

“Father, father, I saw a face

Pressed just now to the window-pane!

Oh, it gazed for a moment's space,

Wild and wan, and was gone again!”

“Mother, mother, you saw the snow

Drifted down from the maple tree

( Oh, the wind that is sobbing so!

Weary and worn and old are we ) —

Only the snow and a wounded loon —

Rest and sleep,‘ twill be morning soon.”