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?