The Song of the Dead
Hear now the Song of the Dead—in the North by the torn berg-edges—They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.Song of the Dead in the South—in the sun by their skeleton horses,Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dustof the sear river-courses.
Song of the Dead in the East—in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof—in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.Song of the Dead in the West—in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,Where the wolverene tumbles their packsfrom the camp and the grave-mound they made them;Hear now the Song of the Dead!