The Arctic

Is it a shroud or bridal veil
That hides it from our sight,
The lonely sepulchre of Day,
Or banquet-hall of Night?


Are those the lights of revelry
That glimmer o'er the deep,
Or flashes of a funeral pyre
Above the corpse of Sleep?


Beyond those peaks impregnable
Of everlasting snow,
One star—a steadfast beacon—burns
To guard the coast below.


Whence come the ghostly galleons
The pirate Sun to brave,
And furl the shadowy flag of Death
Above a warmer grave?