Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,  And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,  And the skid-roads blind, and never a look  Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina,  And west winds keener  Than jack-knife blades,  And rocks grown greener  With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades  On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck,  And the camp half-closed and the pay-roll leaner, — Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck? Yet... I don't know... there’s an hour at night When the clouds brea? and the stars are turning.

A thousand points of diamond light Through the old snags of the cedar-burning, And the west wind’s spurning A hundred highlands, And the frost-moon’s learning The white fog-ways of the outer islands, And the shallows are dark with the sleeping duck, And life’s a wonder for our discerning, — Say, little horse, shall we wait our luck? [1]

Literary Analysis

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet Consectetur

Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Donec elementum ligula eu sapien consequat eleifend.

[1] Marjorie Pickthall