Where the glacier's teeth hang white,

And even the sun-god Baldur,

Looks down in vague affright,

You flutter like startled spectres,

With a prayer on your lips for the goal—

To stand for one thrilling moment

At the awful, nameless Pole.

[58]

But lo! in that hour shall greet you,

At the end of your perilous path,

A mockery far more bitter

Than the sting of the frost king's wrath,

For this is the meed you shall gather

In the lands no man has trod:

The finger that beckoned you onward

Shall lift and point to God!

1903

[59]

[59]

TO C. 33.

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