THE RAGGED LAND 



Were you ever marooned in the Ragged Land far 



out from the frontier lines, 

 Where the wild wind sweeps from the Arctic Pole 



and soughs through the Norway pines? 

 Have you watched the sky in a blue-bowled night 



as you lay on the close-packed sod 

 And a star fell down from its place up there like a 



match from the hand of God? 

 Have you heard the jeer of an idiot loon in a land 



of unearthly quiet, 

 With the grub-pack down to a can of milk and the 



prospect of cones for diet? 

 Has your soul been bared to the naked wind in the 



midst of a trackless wild 

 To the naked wind of the Ragged Land like the 



soul of an artless child? 

 Have you dreamed again in your office chair of a 



trail that you left behind; 

 Of a song that the pine trees softly sing at the end 



of a long day's grind; 

 Of the restful peace of primeval years in the hush 



of the balsam air, 

 And a sun that crimsons the chopped-up edge of the 



tumbled mountains there? 

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