Rude sledge, that shalt the mortal relic be,
When he is nameless dust, of that strong soul
Who won the great adventure of the Pole,
I read the lineaments of fate in thee.
Thou art the image of necessity,
Framed of denial, the wise will's control, —
" Least will do most, " — " Spare all, and win the whole, "
Thou sayest, — " Art, life, are brothers unto me. "

So was that soul accoutred, in and out;
So stood he on the gray roof of the world,
Gazing on heavens he lifted up from earth;
Illimitable chaos round about
Knelt to his flag; victor, beneath him whirled
Earth's axis; and within him was man's mirth.