There are strange things done under the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold The Arctic trails have their secret tales That will make your blood run cold. The Northern Lights have seen queer sights But the queerest they ever did see Was that night at the marge of Lake LeBarge When I cremated Sam McGee.
I like Rhymes of a Rolling Stone and Ballads of a Bohemian far better than his Yukon stuff. But I may be alone in that. He's certainly better-known for the latter. In spite of my time in the West, his poems about being in Paris resonate more strongly with me.
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There are strange things done under the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That will make your blood run cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night at the marge of Lake LeBarge
When I cremated Sam McGee.
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