Rhymes Of A Rolling Stone Part 8

Jewel the bear-skin of the door!

Gleam in my beard, illume my breath, Blanch the clock face that times my death!

But do not pierce that murk so deep, Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep!

But do not linger where they lie, They who had all the luck to die! . . .

_"There is nothing more to say; Let us part and go our way.

Since it seems we can't agree, I will go across the sea.

Proud of heart and strong am I; Not for woman will I sigh; Hold my head up gay and glad: You can find another lad. . . ."_

IV

Above the igloo piteous flies Our frayed flag to the frozen skies.

Oh, would you know how earth can be A h.e.l.l -- go north of Eighty-three!

Go, scan the snows day after day, And hope for help, and pray and pray; Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat; Melt water with your body's heat; Sleep all the fell, black winter through Beside the dear, dead men you knew.

(The walrus blubber flares and gleams -- O G.o.d! how long a minute seems!) . . .

_"Mary, many a day has pa.s.sed, Since that morn of hot-head youth.

Come I back at last, at last, Crushed with knowing of the truth; How through bitter, barren years You loved me, and me alone; Waited, wearied, wept your tears -- Oh, could I atone, atone, I would pay a million-fold!

Pay you for the love you gave.

Mary, look down as of old -- I am kneeling by your grave." . . ._

V

Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go; Bitten his eyes were by the snow; Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue, So that he died before I knew.

Here in those poor weak arms he died: "Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied; "For I will watch till Spring come round; Slumber you shall beneath the ground."

Oh, how I lied! I scarce can wait: Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! . . .

_"Comrade, can you blame me quite?

The horror of the long, long night Is on me, and I've borne with pain So long, and hoped for help in vain.

So frail am I, and blind and dazed; With scurvy sick, with silence crazed.

Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate, Avid for Death I wait, I wait.

Oh if I falter, fail to fight, Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?" . . ._

VI

Big Eric gave up months ago.

But seldom do men suffer so.

His feet sloughed off, his fingers died, His hands shrunk up and mummified.

I had to feed him like a child; Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled, Talked of his wife and little one (Thanks be to G.o.d that I have none), Pa.s.sed in the night without a moan, Pa.s.sed, and I'm here, alone, alone. . . .

_"I've got to kill you, d.i.c.k.

Your life for mine, you know.

Better to do it quick, A swift and sudden blow.

See! here's my hand to lick; A hug before you go -- G.o.d! but it makes me sick: Old dog, I love you so.

Forgive, forgive me, d.i.c.k -- A swift and sudden blow. . . ."_

VII

Often I start up in the dark, Thinking the sound of bells to hear.

Often I wake from sleep: "Oh, hark!

Help . . . it is coming . . . near and near."

Blindly I reel toward the door; There the snow billows bleak and bare; Blindly I seek my den once more, Silence and darkness and despair.

Oh, it is all a dreadful dream!

Scurvy and cold and death and dearth; I will awake to warmth and gleam, Silvery seas and greening earth.

Life is a dream, its wakening, Death, gentle shadow of G.o.d's wing. . . .

_"Tick, little clock, my life away!

Even a second seems a day.

Even a minute seems a year, Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer Into my face so charnel white, Lit by the devilish, dancing light.

Tick, little clock! mete out my fate: Tortured and tense I wait, I wait. . . ."_

VIII

Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh: When it strikes eight, I die, I die.

Raise up the gun -- it stings my brow -- When it strikes eight . . . all ready . . . _NOW_ --

Down from my hand the weapon dropped; Wildly I stared. . . .

_THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED._

IX

Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone.

Peace seems to nestle in my brain.

Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on; Heart-sick I was, and less than sane.

Yet do I scorn the thing I planned, Hearing a voice: "O coward, fight!"

Then the clock stopped . . . whose was the hand?

Maybe 'twas G.o.d's -- ah well, all's right.

Heap on me darkness, fold on fold!

Pain! wrench and rack me! What care I?

Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold!

I will await my time to die; Looking to Heaven that s.h.i.+nes above; Looking to G.o.d, and love . . . and love.

X

Hark! what is that? Bells, dogs again!

Is it a dream? I sob and cry.

See! the door opens, fur-clad men Rush to my rescue; frail am I; Feeble and dying, dazed and glad.

There is the pistol where it dropped.

"Boys, it was hard -- but I'm not mad. . . .

Look at the clock -- it stopped, it stopped.

Carry me out. The heavens smile.