The Heart of the Sourdough
There where the mighty mountains
bare their fangs unto the moon,
where the sullen sun-dogs glare
in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down
at the clarion call of June.
There where the livid tundras keep their tryst
with the tranquil snows;
There where the silences are spawned,
and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky,
violet, amber and rose.
There where the rapids churn and roar,
and the ice-floes bellowing
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood
rush to the setting sun --
I've packed my kit and I'm
ere another day is done.
I knew it would call, or soon or late,
as it calls the whirring wings;
It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure,
it's the lure of the timeless things,
And to-night, oh, God of the trails untrod,
how it whines in my heart-strings!