He spoke, uncertain, as one must

Who speaks a foreign tongue.

Yet in his voice was poetry

And love was in his song.

"My home", he said, "is far away,

Where ice-carved mountains sleep.

Where summer sun shines through the night;

Where silver salmon leap."

He spoke of fur-clad nomad tribes

And longingly he told

Of wolves and whales and albatross

And fearful, numbing cold.

"Tell me," I begged, "Where is this land?

May I not also know

Unchanging twilight, winter grey,

Unending ice and snow? "

"Rivers like twisting silver snakes

Seen from a distant hill,

Crawling to frosted, silver seas,

Silent, serene and still ? "

He smiled, and as he turned his head,

Unyielding, hard and bright,

His eyes of ebony and ice

Shone like the winter night.

He laughed. Then even as we kissed,

I watched, with wondering eyes,

Slow march of incandescent fires

Across the northern skies.