The icicles pressed down across the sled;
I tried to lash it tight, to no avail.
The light that slanted on us, harsh and red,
Was just enough to see my men grow pale
With realization that the coming night
Would bring us worse than what the day had done.
I tried to wring some comfort from that sight,
Some hope to counteract the setting sun,
But every thought turned slowly to the grave.
The destination to which we were sent
Will never come; I have no hope to save
These men of mine. I wonder why we went
So uselessly; we never will achieve
Our purpose, and for that I mostly grieve.
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