Lay him down where the fern is thick and fair. br Fain was he for life, here lies he low: br With the blood washed clean from his brow and his beautiful hair, br Lay him here in the dell where the orchids grow. br br Let the birch-bark torches roar in the gloom, br And the trees crowd up in a quiet startled ring br So lone is the land that in this lonely room br Never before has breathed a human thing. br br Cover him well in his canvas shroud, and the moss br Part and heap again on his quiet breast, br What recks he now of gain, or love, or loss br Who for love gained rest? br br While she who caused it all hides her insolent eyes br Or braids her hair with the ribbons of lust and of lies, br And he who did the deed fares out like a hunted beast br To lurk where the musk-ox tramples the barren ground br Where the stroke of his coward heart is the only sound. br br Haunting the tamarac shade, br Hear them up-thronging br Memories foredoomed br Of strife and of longing: br Haggard or bright br By the tamaracs and birches, br Where the red torch light br Trembles and searches, br The wilderness teems br With inscrutable eyes br Of ghosts that are dreams br Commingled with memories. br br Leave him here in his secret ferny tomb, br Withdraw the little light from the ocean of gloom, br He who feared nought will fear aught never, br Left alone in the forest forever and ever. br br Then, as we fare on our way to the shore br Sudden the torches cease to roar: br For cleaving the darkness remote and still br Comes a wind with a rushing, harp-like thrill, br The sound of wings hurled and furled and unfurled, br The wings of the Angel who gathers the souls from the wastes of br the world.