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Robert W Service - The NostomaniacRobert W Service - The Nostomaniac
Work rating: Medium


On the ragged edge of the world I`ll roam, And the home of the wolf shall be my home, And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows! I`m dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower, My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee; But I`m not in the mood for reading, I haven`t moved for an hour; Body and brain I`m weary, weary the heart of me; Weary of crushing a longing it`s little I understand, For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest; But oh, it`s stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land! And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast. Here in my den it`s quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane; There`s comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet. All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain, Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat. Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told; By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see; Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old, Out of the dark I hear it the Northland calling to me. And I`m daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where; My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird. Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair Eager and tense I`m straining isn`t it most absurd? Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings, Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar; Rocks are spitting like hell-cats Oh, it`s a sport for kings, Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there`s my "Kim" on the floor. How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night; Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream; Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight, Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream: Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine, When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot`s nearing the boil! Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . . Ha! there`s my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil. What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more? Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life! Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor, The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife: Something to fight and die for the limpid Lake of the Bear, The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell; Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" Hell!! Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more? Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine, Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore, Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine? Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain? Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . . Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again? Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?" Yes, I`ll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear, Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea. Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare; Give me a trail to conquer Oh, it is "meat" to me! I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame; Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree; Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name: I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me. Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun; Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea; Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun; Turn me foot-loose like a savage that is the finish of me. I know the trail I am seeking, it`s up by the Lake of the Bear; It`s down by the Arctic Barrens, it`s over to Hudson`s Bay; Maybe I`ll get there, maybe: death is set by a hair. . . . Hark! it`s the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . . Go to the Wild that waits for me; Go where the moose and the musk-ox be; Go to the wolf and the secret snows; Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!
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