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77
IN HIGHER LATITUDES
“A frost,” we say, “the stars such keen rays woreAll night; and now against a roughened pane
This dawn-light quivering beats with red-rose stain,
And pearled till noontide lie the meadows hoar.”
Yet reck the while of climes where toward earth's core
The fierce cold strikes a thrilling shaft, as fain
To daunt the centre's fire, and all the plain
Is monstrous ice and snow for evermore.
Even so, this spell that half a night can keep
Our senses chilled, yet scarce outlingereth
The earliest beam, but while long shadows creep
Fades dream-like from the fields of thought and breath,
We, journeying through a milder zone, call sleep,
Remembering still the arctic sleep of death.
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