Hibernating in the northern-most hills,
Beneath Winter’s canvas, the wind’s grim shrills,
‘Midst the caverned silence unsung by bird,
Lies man’s deep-buried soul, its pulse unheard.
Frost buries warmth no fire but man’s can lend.
Strong limbs bow low before a blizzard’s wind,
Their foliage taken, the bush is bare,
The woods wither because man does not dare.
If the hearts of man should wilt and then wane
Then Spring shall follow with guilt and disdain.
To Wake and Live, Sleep and Let Die: Choose!
Before, Like O’erspread snow, his death accrues.
     Awake the Savage! Where is Man’s hunger?
     Too long he slept, too long he has slumbered.