Siberia

In Siberia's wastes

The ice-wind's breath

Woundeth like the toothed steel;

Lost Siberia doth reveal

Only blight and death.

Blight and death alone.

No Summer shines.

Night is interblent with Day.

In Siberia's wastes alway

The blood blackens, the heart pines.

In Siberia's wastes

No tears are shed,

For they freeze within the brain.

Nought is felt but dullest pain,

Pain acute, yet dead;

Pain as in a dream,

When years go by

Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,

When man lives, and doth not live.

Doth not live — nor die.

In Siberia's wastes

Are sands and rocks

Nothing blooms of green or soft,

But the snow-peaks rise aloft

And the gaunt ice-blocks.