The wind came cold from Malin Head
Across the cliffs and heather gray
The Atlantic rolled beneath the sky
Just like it did that summer day

The gulls still wheel above the rocks
The lighthouse keeps its lonely view
And every step along this shore
Brings back a memory of you… Like De-ja-vu

The evening settles on the coast
A silver mist begins to rise
The distant boats become faint lights
Like scattered stars beneath the skies

I hear your laughter on the wind
The way I always used to 
And every rolling swell that breaks
Returns another piece of you… Like De-ja-vu

Wave after wave comes crashing down
The sea remembers what we knew
The salt, the wind, your hand in mine
A thousand moments shining through

Though years have carried you away
And time has changed the ocean’s hue
I stand here where we stood before
And it’s like… De-ja-vu

I heard the pines in winter sway
Their whispers soft through night and day
As snow fell deep in silent grace
Across the wild and frozen place

 

And in that hush, so cold, so wide,
A great bear wandered, slow with stride,
Through drifts that rose to meet his chest
In search of sleep, in search of rest

The wind would hum through branch and bone
A lonely, ancient forest tone
And though no bell nor choir was near
The woods themselves rang sharp and clear

And the stars above like embers glowed
As seasons shifted, and her heart-rate slowed
And time stood still, in that frozen land
As she lay her head on the cold white sand

For life persists where few may see
In root and claw, in quiet decree
That even here, in frost’s embrace
There beats a wild, enduring grace

And so he found beneath the pine
A hollowed earth, a sacred shrine
Where heart slowed down and breath grew deep
And winter sang him into sleep

Still through the cold, the forest lay
And whispered truths not heard by day
That peace is found where stillness stays
And strength endures through silent ways

Sleep little one

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;

It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.

I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.

It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

The valley slept in a drift of snow
 where the frozen rivers lie,
And the spruce stood dark in the duskaAs the cold stars filled the sky.
But high above where winds sweep and roam,
The mountain waited for me
to leave … the warmth of my home.

I left the trail where the sled dogs turned
from the cabin flame,
To where the white slopes whispered their quiet claim.
The snow was deep
and air thin
As I climbed, further away
from the world of men.

The Yukon wind has a lonely song 
that it sings through rock and pine;
It tells of roads that are steep and longaAnd a truth that is not easy to find.
To the peaks that stand cold and alone,
With the storm clouds wrapped about;
Like flesh and bone

By noon the sky was a burning blue
 and the ridges flashed like glass
Every step fought against me
 before the snow began to fall and cover my path.
And yet, It was the silence that took hold,
like a living thing
And settled around me,
When I heard the cry of a raven sing

And then at last, I stood
 where the sharp winds tear and roam
Where the earth falls off and the sky descends like a frozen, endless dome.
And I knew more than ever before,
though the climb was a weary fight
That a man can find more than anywhere else
in those empty heights

The mountains hold what the towns forget—
The measure of breath and soul
And the sky, so quiet 
it makes you whole.
And though I had no choice but to turn back 
to where the dim blue rivers wind,
I never again felt like I felt
Standing on that summit
Before I left the summit behind.

(Inspired by Edger Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee” 1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
By the edge of the deep blue sea,
That a maiden there lived whom the harbor knew
By the name of Rosalee;

And her heart was bound to a sailor bold
Who would one day sail from she.

He was young and she was young,
By the edge of the deep blue sea,

And they loved with a love that was more than love—
As wild as the restless sea—
With a love that the winds in the evening tide
Seemed to sing so endlessly.

And on the night that the storm clouds came,
Ov’er the face of the deep blue sea,
When the wind it rose and it spoke his name
To the crew from the darkening lee;

The sky fell down and the mast was torn,
And it carried him far from she.
And as the days went by, no ship returned
From the wrath of the deep blue sea,

The bells tolled for the ones’
In the grave of the restless sea;
But she stood where the tide meets stone
For she would not let him be.

and so she set out alone in a boat at row
On the face of the deep blue sea,
With the stars above and the name of her love
whispering, quietly;

But the waves grew high and the winds grew wild,
And they swallowed her boat at sea

For it takes and keeps what the heart would hold,
In its cold eternity;

Now the moon still shines on that quiet shore
By the edge of the deep blue sea,
And the wind still hums of a love once lost
Of the young man and Rosalee
For beneath those waves where the cold tides sleep,
They are bound—and forever free

The boy and Rosalee.