Analysis of The Nostomaniac
On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,
And the home of the wolf shall be my home,
And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows
The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!
I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,
My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;
But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;
Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;
Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,
For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;
But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!
And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.
Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane;
There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet.
All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain,
Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat.
Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told;
By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see;
Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old,
Out of the dark I hear it -- the Northland calling to me.
And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where;
My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird.
Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair
Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd?
Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings,
Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar;
Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings,
Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.
How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night;
Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream;
Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight,
Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:
Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,
When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!
Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .
Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.
What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more?
Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life!
Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor,
The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife:
Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear,
The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell;
Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair
How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!!
Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more?
Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine,
Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore,
Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine?
Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain?
Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . .
Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again?
Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"
Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear,
Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.
Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare;
Give me a trail to conquer -- Oh, it is "meat" to me!
I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame;
Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree;
Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name:
I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me.
Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun;
Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea;
Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun;
Turn me foot-loose like a savage -- that is the finish of me.
I know the trail I am seeking, it's up by the Lake of the Bear;
It's down by the Arctic Barrens, it's over to Hudson's Bay;
Maybe I'll get there, -- maybe: death is set by a hair. . . .
Hark! it's the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . .
Go to the Wild that waits for me;
Go where the moose and the musk-ox be;
Go to the wolf and the secret snows;
Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!
Scheme | AABB CDCDEFEF GHGHIDID JKJKLMLM NONOPQPQ MRMRJSJS MPMPGTXT JDJDUDUD VDVDJWJW DDBB |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1010110111 0011011111 0011110101 011111111 110110010101011010 1110111101111 11100111011011110 1001110100111 10110010110101 1111111101111111 11110111011011 011101011010110101 10111100111101 110010100110111 1101111110101 1001010101101 11111111111111 11111111111111111 111110111111111 1101111011011 011001101101011 111110100111101 11010110101101 1001110101101 10010010111001 1111010100101 1110111110111 11011010111101 1110110111101 10110101101001 1101010101101 1001110101011 101110101101 10111010011001 101111010111 1111010111011 1111110111101 1111111110111 11010100101101 0101101110101 1011011011101 010011010011011 111111111101 111101100101 1111110111111 1101011010111 1110010101101 110101011101 11111110100101 10011010100111 11111010111101 111101010111111 11111011101101 1101010110111 11111110101111 1101110111111 1111101100101 11010110111101 110101101011011 111110110111011 111110010111101 111100110001011 111100101000101 111110101101011 1101111011101101 111010101101101 1011110111101 110110111101 11011111 110100111 110100101 11111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic heptameter |
Characters | 4,146 |
Words | 818 |
Sentences | 70 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 4 |
Lines Amount | 72 |
Letters per line (avg) | 44 |
Words per line (avg) | 12 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 313 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 84 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:12 min read
- 112 Views
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"The Nostomaniac" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/32599/the-nostomaniac>.
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