 The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service Red for LibriVox.org by Bob Sherman I wanted the gold and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. Yet somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's a land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. If you're like an exile at first, you hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold, and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop, and I thought that I surely was dreaming, with a piece of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods, all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moon, like the mystery, I've got them good-by, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless, and deaths that just hang by hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pipe to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham-fight, it's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam-site, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for Lieberbox.org by Caliban. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I bought it. I held my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. Somehow the gold isn't all. No. There's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cuttidest land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But the summers would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich. Damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you. Like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. Seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouth-holler that's plumpled a hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set, the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a-sprill. The grayling leap in the river, the big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life, it never knows harness. The wilds with the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the harness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges your dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods with the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them good-bye. But I can't. There's a land with the mountains and nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and nameless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys on people and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no champagne. It's hell. But I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight, so it's me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's a forest where silence has leased. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. And a poem. This recording is placed into the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service read for livavox.org by Chris Caron. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the Custest land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth than I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouth hollow. That's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've sought that I surely was dreaming with the piece of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiney woods all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white landlock tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bathed them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money dimnish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I have been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has leased. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land, have you seen it? It's the cussetist land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there some as would trade it, for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow, that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big, husky sun wallow, in crimson and gold, and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, with a piece o' the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiney woods, all a thrill. The grayling, a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've baited them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came up with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's a cussetist land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouth hollow that's plum-full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiney woods all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've baited them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are herdships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skin to a finish. I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has leased. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert Service. Read for LibriVox.org by James O'Connor, November 2009. I wanted the gold and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the Cussidus land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun, maybe. But this sum is what trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich and good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big, husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Until the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming what the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling a-leap in the river. The big hawn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the fondness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeoned you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I bait them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish. I'll fight to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell. But I've been there before, and it's better than this by a dam site. So me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much is just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley, January, 2010. I wanted the gold and I sawed it. I scrambled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I thought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I sawed it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the Custodist land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big, husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiney woods all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've baited them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and nameless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell that I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site. So for me, the Yukon, once more. There's gold and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as a vault. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land where I ponder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for LibreVox.org by Linda LePiquette. I wanted the gold and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold and I got it. I came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussetist land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as with traded for no land on earth and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouthed hollow that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon sets the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sun's shiny woods, all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land, locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that pledges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've beat them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon, once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much is just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service. Read for LibreBox.org by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's a cussidous land that I know from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouthed hollow that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, necking crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming where the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiney woods, all the thrill. The grayling, a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds were the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land, locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've baited them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of a taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just findin' the gold. It's the great big broad land, way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service Read for LibriVox.org by Roger Maline I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussedness land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it, for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plum-full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Yukon by Robert W. Service, read for LibriVox.org by Revan Notatian. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know. From the big dizzy mountain that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as wood-traded for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow. That's plum-full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling and leap in the river. The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on this all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bloodins you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are earring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by our hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, with beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell that I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site. So me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer. No sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a thrill. The grayling a leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wiles where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the furnace. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter. The brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam site, so me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No. There's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussetist land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich. Damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season. And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouth-tallow that's plum-full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer. No sweeter was ever. The sun-shiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling a-leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness. The freedom. The farness. Oh God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter. The brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludges you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness. The moonlight. The mystery. I've bade them goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are airing and aimless and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight. And you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell. But I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold. And it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big broad land. Way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. And it's the stillness that fills me with peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.