There where the many are dwelling, but no man yet has a home!
Desolate league upon league, ice-pack and tundra and hill;
And the dark of the year when the gold-hunter’s rocker and dredge are still!
By the fire that is no man’s hearth,—by the fire more precious than gold,—
They are passing the time as they may, encompassed by storm and by cold:
And their talk is of pay-streak and bedrock, of claim by seashore or creek,
Of the brigantine fast in the ice-pack this many and many a week;
Wraiths of the mist and the snow encumber her canvas and deck,—
And the Eskimos swear that a crew out of ghostland are crowding the wreck!
Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome,