Coming to 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.
- And the exile there
- Is one with those;
- They are part, and lie 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, that heweth nigh
- With sharp scymitar.
- And such doom each sees,
- Till, hunger-gnawn,
- And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
- Yet scarce more a corpse than ere
- His last breath was drawn.
