“Were you ever out on the Great Alone,
When the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in
With a silence you ‘most could hear
With only the sound of a timber wolf
And you camped there, in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world,
Clean mad for the muck called gold,
While high overhead, green, yellow and red,
The north lights swept in bars?
Then you’ve a hunch what that music meant:
hunger and night and the stars…” – Robert Service
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