The law of the yukon poem. Poem: The Law of the Yukon by Robert William Service 2022-10-23
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The Law of the Yukon is a poem written by Robert W. Service, a British-Canadian poet who is known for his works about the Klondike Gold Rush in the late 19th century. The Law of the Yukon is a celebration of the rugged and dangerous lifestyle of the men who braved the harsh conditions of the Yukon Territory in search of gold.
The poem begins with a description of the harsh winter conditions in the Yukon, with the narrator stating that "the law of the Yukon is, 'You must keep your head.' " This line sets the tone for the rest of the poem, as it implies that the men who lived in the Yukon were tough and resourceful, and had to be constantly vigilant in order to survive.
The poem then goes on to describe the various dangers that the men faced, including the threat of starvation, the risk of being attacked by wild animals, and the dangers of the frozen rivers and treacherous mountain trails. Despite these dangers, the men of the Yukon were determined to survive and succeed, and the poem celebrates their strength and resilience.
One of the most memorable lines of the poem is "The law of the Yukon is, 'you must take your turn.' " This line speaks to the sense of community and camaraderie that existed among the men of the Yukon. Despite the harsh conditions, they were all in it together, and they supported each other through thick and thin.
In conclusion, The Law of the Yukon is a tribute to the bravery and determination of the men who braved the harsh conditions of the Yukon Territory in search of gold. It celebrates their strength and resilience, and pays tribute to the sense of community and camaraderie that existed among them.
"The Law of the Yukon" Poem Review 133742
From the Paper: "This paper will analyze the poem "The Law of the Yukon", by Robert W. Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain: "Send not your Strong for the red rage of battle; sane for I Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core; Swift as the Sired of a Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons; Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat; But the Dissolute, Ye "Wild and wide are my borders, From my Hugging my Till he The One by one I One by one I One by one I Drowned them like rats in my rivers, Rotted the Burst with my Lashed them with fungus-white faces, "Staggering Frozen Featureless, formless, forsaken, Left for the wind to make Gnawing the Crooking the toe in the trigger, Going Writing a Lost like a Seeking a drunkard's solace, Steeped in the Lost 'mid the In the camp at the bend of the river, with its Its Crimped with the In the hush of my Plague-spots, yet Crushing my Weak in "But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who Unto its Searching my Shooting the Ripping the guts of my mountains, Them will I take to my bosom, and I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; Steeped in Long have I Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of Wild and wide are my borders, And I wait for the men who will win me -- and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, But by men with the Desperate, Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones; Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons; Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat; But the others — the misfits, the failures — I trample under my feet. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters—Go! In the Yukon glen there's a gambling den With ever open doors The miners come and make things hum Playing tippit in plus four's. Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, Rotted the flesh that was left, poisoned the blood in their veins; Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; "Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home; Lost like a louse in the burning. The boss of the hut is a fiendish slut A woman called Hannah Perkins She frowns by the hour - her face is so sour It's pickled her internal workings. Robert William Service If you liked "The Law Of The Yukon poem by Robert William Service" page. This one is about sending your best men. Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me -- and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me — and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was — Men.
The Law Of The Yukon Poem by Robert William Service
Poem by Email Poem. Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, Of Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters — Go! Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, This is the Will of the Yukon,--Lo, how she makes it plain! This is the first paragraph of his famous poem the Law of the Yukon. Com permission to publish the poem.
Poem: The Law of the Yukon by Robert William Service
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me -- and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. . . . Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters-Go! Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the land and first; Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with longing forlorn, Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.
Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood. Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. He is known as the Canadian Kipling. Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains,Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins;Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight,Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;"Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow,Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow;Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight,Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair,Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer;Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam,Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home;Lost like a louse in the burning.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters — Go! Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me — and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, This is the Will of the Yukon. You should visit the pages below. Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was--Men. I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. According to the paper, Robert Service wrote many poems about the Yukon and the hardships as well as the excitement of the prospector's life and became to voice of the Yukon that represented the people that flocked to the gold rush.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins; Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer; Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home; Lost like a louse in the burning. I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. On the Yukon trail thousands fail For only the fit can thrive The weak and slow are trampled low And only the strong survive. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, This is the Will of the Yukon, — Lo, how she makes it plain! The copyright of the poems published here are belong to their poets. Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins; Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer; Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home; Lost like a louse in the burning. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, This is the Will of the Yukon, -- Lo, how she makes it plain! Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn. Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their cluthces, that only my Strong may survive.
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn. All information in here has been published only for educational and informational purposes. Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me-and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms; One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms. Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood, Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world.
