Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank,
I'll mind the lesson, solitary bird — let me too welcome chilling drifts,
E'en the profoundest chill, as now — a torpid pulse, a brain unnerv'd,
Old age land-lock'd within its winter bay — ( cold, cold, O cold! )
These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet,
For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last;
Not summer's zones alone — not chants of youth, or south's warm tides alone,
But held by sluggish floes, pack'd in the northern ice, the cumulus of years,
These with gay heart I also sing.