The Steamboat Graveyard Poem by Lone Dog

There lies not far from Dawson's dome,
Along the Yukon's flow,
A graveyard full of steamers that
Are ghosts from long ago.

With flaking paint on ruptured hull,
And twisted winch and prow,
Above, a sagging wheelhouse,
Stripped bare and silent now.

The weathered wood of shapeless sterns
Lies strewn in jumbled heaps;
And on the sand beside them there
A rusted smokestack sleeps.

These lifeless forms rest on the bank
In such a sorry state;
Yet, stand as proud reminders of
The days of Ninety-Eight.

Of hardships, courage, hope, despair,
Along the Chilkoot Trail;
Of raging rapids that were run
When cold stabbed like a nail.

These stately steamers plied their way;
The lifeline of the North,
With cargoes in their bulging holds
So men could sally forth.

The men, the gold, the era's gone,
But still survives, I know,
A graveyard full of steamers that
Are ghosts from long ago.