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.
Naught is felt but dullest pain.,
Pain acute, but dead.
In Siberia's wastes
Are sands and rocks.
Nothing blooms of green and soft,
But the snow-peaks rise aloft
And the gaunt ice-blocks.
- James G. Mangon.
