Weaklings drifted homeward; else they tarried—worse than dying—
With the painted lips and wastrels on the edges of the night.
Berries of the saskatoon were ripening and falling;
Flowers decked the barren with its timber scant and low;
All along the river-trail were many voices calling,
And e’en the whimpering Malemutes they heard—and whined to go.
Eyelids seared with fire and ice and frosted parka-edges;
Firelight like a spray of blood on faces lean and brown;
Shifting shadows of the pines across our loaded sledges,
And far behind the fading trail, the lights and lures of town.