Poems List

Why Do Birds Sing?

Why Do Birds Sing?

Let poets piece prismatic words,
Give me the jewelled joy of birds!


What ecstasy moves them to sing?
Is it the lyric glee of Spring,
The dewy rapture of the rose?
Is it the worship born in those
Who are of Nature's self a part,
The adoration of the heart?


Is it the mating mood in them
That makes each crystal note a gem?
Oh mocking bird and nightingale,
Oh mavis, lark and robin - hail!
Tell me what perfect passion glows
In your inspired arpeggios?


A thrush is thrilling as I write
Its obligato of delight;
And in its fervour, as in mine,
I fathom tenderness divine,
And pity those of earthy ear
Who cannot hear . . . who cannot hear.


Let poets pattern pretty words:
For lovely largesse - bless you, Birds!
177

Wheels

Wheels


Since I am sick of Wheels
That jar my day,
Unto the hush that heals
I steal away.
Unto the core of Peace
Nature reveals,
I go to win release
From Wheels.

Let me beneath the moon
Take desert trail;
Or on some lost lagoon
Serenely sail;
Win to some peak the grey
Storm cloud conceals . . .
Life, let me get away
From Wheels!

Why was I born so late?
A skin-clad man
I should have shared the fate
Of mountain clan;
My quiet flock beside,
When silence steals,
Unshocked in eventide
By Wheels.

The Wheel is King today,
And speed's a god;
Yet when I see the way
My feet have trod,
Like pilgrims who to shrine
Of Beauty kneels,
I pray: O Peace divine
Damn Wheels!
214

White Christmas

White Christmas

My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .
Please, God, they'll never know.


I clean the paint from off my face,
In sober black I dress;
Of coquetry I leave no trace
To give them vague distress;
And though it causes me a pang
To play such sorry tricks,
About my neck I meekly hang
A silver crufix.


And so with humble step I go
Just like a child again,
To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
A soul without a stain;
So well I play my contrite part
I make myself believe
There's not a stain within my heart
On Holy Christmas Eve.


With double natures we are vext,
And what we feel, we are;
A saint one day, a sinner next,
A red light or a star;
A prostitute or proselyte,
And in each part sincere:
So I become a vestal white
One week in every year.


For this I say without demur
From out life's lurid lore,
Each righteous women has in her
A tincture of the whore;
While every harpy of the night,
As I have learned too well;
Holds in her heart a heaven-light
To ransom her from hell.


So I'll go home and sweep and dust;
I'll make the kitchen fire,
And be a model of daughters just
The best they could desire;
I'll fondle them and cook their food,
And Mother dear will say:
"Thank God! my darling is as good



As when she went away."


But after New Year's Day I'll fill
My bag and though they grieve,
I'll bid them both good-bye until
Another Christmas Eve;
And then . . . a knock upon the door:
I'll find them waiting there,
And angel-like I'll come once more
In answer to their prayer.


Then Lo! one night when candle-light
Gleams mystic on the snow,
And music swells of Christmas bells,
I'll come, no more to go:
The old folks need my love and care,
Their gold shall gild my dross,
And evermore my breast shall bear
My little silver cross.
242

Washerwife

Washerwife


The aged Queen who passed away
Had sixty servants, so they say;
Twice sixty hands her shoes to tie:
Two soapy ones have I.


The old Queen had of beds a score;
A cot have I and ask no more.
For when the last is said and done
One can but die in one.


The old Queen rightly thought that she
Was better than the likes o' me;
And yet I'm glad despite her grace
I am not in her place.


The old Queen's gone and I am here,
To eat my tripe and drink my beer,
Athinkin' as I wash my clothes:
We must have monarchs, I suppose . . .
Well, well,--'Taint no skin off my nose!
245

Weary Waitress

Weary Waitress

Her smile ineffably is sweet,
Devinely she is slim;
Yet oh how weary are her feet,
How aches her every limb!
Thank God it's near to closing time,
--Merciful midnight chime.

Then in her mackintosh she'll go
Up seven flights of stairs,
And on her bed her body throw,
Too tired to say her prayers;
Yet not too sleepy to forget
Her cheap alarm to set.

She dreams . . . That lonely bank-clerk boy
Who comes each day for tea,--
Oh how his eyes light up with joy
Her comeliness to see!
And yet he is too shy to speak,
Far less to touch her cheek.

He dreams . . . If only I were King
I'd make of her my Queen.
If I were laureate I'd sing
Her loveliness serene.
--How wistfully romance can haunt
A city restaurant!

For as I watch that pensive pair
There stirs within my heart
From Arcady an April air
That shames the sordid mart:
A sense of Spring and singing rills,
--Love mid the daffodils.
250

Warsaw

Warsaw


I was in Warsaw when the first bomb fell;
I was in Warsaw when the Terror came -
Havoc and horror, famine, fear and flame,
Blasting from loveliness a living hell.
Barring the station towered a sentinel;
Trainward I battled, blind escape my aim.
ENGLAND! I cried. He kindled at the name:
With lion-leap he haled me. . . . All was well.


ENGLAND! they cried for aid, and cried in vain.
Vain was their valour, emptily they cried.
Bleeding, they saw their Cry crucified. . . .
O splendid soldier, by the last lone train,
To-day would you flame forth to fray me place?
Or - would you curse and spit into my face?


September, 1939
172

Visibility

Visibility


Because my eyes were none to bright
Strong spectacles I bought,
And lo! there sprang into my sight
A life beyond my thought:
A world of wonder and delight
My magic lenses brought.

Aye, sudden leaping in my sight
The far became the near;
Life unbelievably was bright,
And vividly was clear.
My heart was lifted with delight,
Then--then I shrank in fear.

For faces I had thought were gay

I saw were lined with care,
While strange corruption and decay
Surprised me everywhere:


Dismayed I put my specs away,-Such
truth I could not bear.

And now I do not want to see
With clarity of view;
For while there's heaven hell may be
More tragically true:
Though dim may be Reality,
Sheer love shines through.
257

Village Don Juan

Village Don Juan

Lord, I'm grey, my face is run,
But by old Harry, I've had my fun;
And all about, I seem to see
Lads and lassies that look like me;
Ice-blue eyes on every hand,
Handsomest youngsters in the land.


"Old Stud Horse" they say of me,
But back of my beard I laugh with glee.
Far and wide have I sown my seed,
Yet by the gods I've improved the breed:
From byre and stable to joiner's bench,
From landlord's daughter to serving wench.


Ice-blue eyes and blade-straight nose,
Stamp of my virile youth are those;
Now you'll see them on every side,
Proof of my powers, far and wide:
Even the parson' handsome scamp,
And the Doctor's daughter have my stamp.


Many a matron cocks an eye
Of secret knowledge as I pass by;
As for the hubbies, what they don't know
Will never hurt them, so let them go:
The offspring most they seem to prize
Have blade-straight noses and ice-blue byes.


Yet oh, I have a haunting dread
Brother and sister lust the bed;
The Parson's and the Doctor's lass,
Yestreen in the moon I saw them pass;
The thought of them wed is like a knife. . . .
Brother and sister - man and wife.
211

Violet De Vere

Violet De Vere

You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,
Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town;
Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin' of the Peace,
Which signifies araisin' Cain, an' beatin' up the police.
So there she stood before the Court of ruddy Judge McGraw
Whom folks called Old Necessity, because he knew no law.
Aye, crackin' in a silken gown, an' sheddin' of a tear,
Ashine wi' gold an' precious stones sat Violet de Vere.
Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Says he: "Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.
What can you say in your defence? We'll give you a square deal."
"I jest forget," said Violet. "Maybe it was my heel.
I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way."
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,
Where bright wi' paint like plaster saint sat Violet de Vere.


Says he: "I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine."
Says Violet: "Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realize I should not my agility reveal:
Next time I'll kick the Sheriff with my toe and not my heel.
I'm grateful to the Court because I'm not put in the clink;
There's twenty plunks to pay my fine,--but now I come to think:
Judge, darlin', you've been owin' me five bucks for near a year:
Take fifteen,--there! We'll call it square," said Violet de Vere.
209

Unholy Trinity

Unholy Trinity

Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice;
Aye, Parson says it's wrong,
Yet for my pleasing I'll suffice
With Women, Wine and Song.
But though it be with jocund glee
my tavern voice is ringing,
Had I to chuck on of the three,
By gad! I'd give up singing.


Bu not the vine. What draught divine
Could better souse my throttle?
God never meant that mellow wine
Should languish in the bottle.
So Cellerman, your best bring up;
Let silver cobwebs mist it;
When gold or ruby brims the cup,
Could even saint resist it?


I love the ladies, yes, I do,
I always did and will;
I like with dainty dames to coo,
And have been known to bill.
Yes, I agree it's wrong of me,
So call me grey rapscallion,
But when a lusty lass I see
I whinny like a stallion.


Oh let me be a reprobate,
Your canting care defying;
I'll court that gay triumvirate
Right to the day I'm dying.
So troll until the rafter rings,
And may my life be long
To praise the Lord for precious things
like Women, Wine and Song.
202

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Identification and basic context

Robert William Service was born in Preston, Lancashire, England, and later became a Canadian citizen. He is most famous for his Yukon ballads, written during his time in the Canadian North. His writings often focused on the rugged and adventurous life experienced by prospectors and settlers.

Childhood and education

Service's early life was marked by a middle-class upbringing. He received a sound education, but his adventurous spirit led him to seek opportunities abroad rather than settling into a conventional life in England. He eventually traveled to Canada, working various jobs before finding his niche as a poet.

Literary trajectory

Service's literary career took off with the publication of "Songs of a Sourdough" (also known as "The Spell of the Yukon") in 1907, which achieved immediate success. His poetry chronicled the experiences and characters of the Yukon Gold Rush, becoming incredibly popular among both readers and critics. He continued to write prolifically throughout his life, producing novels and plays in addition to his famous ballads.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Service's major works include "Songs of a Sourdough," "The Ballads of a Cheechako," and "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone." His poetry is characterized by its strong narrative quality, accessible language, and rhythmic meter, often employing rhyme schemes that enhance the storytelling. Dominant themes include adventure, hardship, love, loss, and the harsh beauty of the northern landscape. His style is often described as ballad-like, with a direct and engaging tone that appeals to a broad audience. He successfully captured the spirit and vernacular of the people he wrote about, creating memorable characters and situations.

Cultural and historical context

Service's work is deeply rooted in the historical context of the Klondike Gold Rush and the early 20th century. His poems reflect the era's spirit of adventure, the challenges faced by pioneers, and the unique subculture that developed in the Yukon. He belonged to no specific formal literary movement but his popular appeal placed him within the broader tradition of narrative poetry that resonated with the public during his time.

Personal life

Service led a life of considerable adventure. After working in the Yukon, he served as a war correspondent during World War I and lived in various locations, including France and Monaco. His personal experiences often informed the settings and characters in his poetry and prose, imbuing them with authenticity and a sense of lived experience. He married Germaine Cornulier and had a daughter.

Recognition and reception

Robert W. Service achieved immense popularity during his lifetime, earning the nickname "The Bard of the Yukon." His books sold millions of copies, and his poems were widely recited and known. While sometimes criticized by literary elites for being too sentimental or simplistic, his work maintained a strong connection with ordinary readers and continues to be celebrated for its storytelling and evocative portrayal of the North.

Influences and legacy

Service's work was influenced by popular ballad traditions and the real-life stories of the people he encountered. He, in turn, influenced countless readers and writers with his ability to capture the spirit of adventure and the human condition in challenging environments. His poems remain a significant cultural touchstone for understanding the Yukon Gold Rush era and continue to be read and enjoyed worldwide.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Service's work for its portrayal of romanticized adventure versus the harsh realities of frontier life. His poems can be interpreted as both celebrating and critiquing the pursuit of fortune, as well as exploring themes of loneliness, companionship, and the resilience of the human spirit against nature's unforgiving backdrop.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his fame as a poet of the North, Service spent relatively little time in the Yukon compared to the duration of his life. His ability to capture the atmosphere and spirit of the region was a testament to his observational skills and imaginative writing. He was also known for his adventurous lifestyle outside of his writing career.

Death and memory

Robert W. Service passed away in 1958. His memory is kept alive through his enduringly popular poems, which continue to be published, recited, and celebrated, ensuring his place as a beloved chronicler of the Yukon's golden age.