The Heart of the Sourdough

Robert Service

There where the mighty mountains
  bare their fangs unto the moon,
There 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 run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood
  rush to the setting sun --
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys,
  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!