The Heart Of The Sourdough

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-gutted 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, O God of the trails untrod, how it whines in my heart-strings!     I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make-believe and your show;     I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shake-down in the snow,     A trail to break, and a life at stake, and another bout with the foe;     With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, the wild that would crush and rend;     I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to defy and defend;     Shoulder to shoulder we've fought it out - yet the Wild must win in the end.     I have flouted the Wild. I have followed its lure, fearless, familiar, alone;     By all that the battle means and makes I claim that land for mine own;     Yet the Wild must win, and a day will come when I shall be overthrown.     Then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, the lean wolf-land and I;     Fought and bled till the snows are red under the reeling sky;     Even as lean wolf-dog goes down will I go down and die.