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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 115 |
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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 snowpeaks rise aloft
And the gaunt ice-blocks.
And the exile there
Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart,
And the killing snows.
Therefore in those wastes
None curse the Czar; Each man's tongue is cloven by The North Blast, which heweth nigh
With sharp scimitar.
And such doom each drees,
Till, hunger-gnawn And cold-slain, he at length sinks there Yet scarce more a corpse than ere
His last dreath was drawn. |
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