We crested over a frozen ridge
And over a frozen plain
Just mushing blind on an ice-hard line
Of frozen, midnight pain.
We were past the seven hundredth post
In that soulless, ice-hard place
And the wind blew a hole through each hardened soul
And froze each hardened face.
We,d have given-- each man-- his good right hand
For a kinder, warmer day
Or an end to the noise--but we had no choice
But slog on, toward the next of Kay!