The Hand

Throughout my life I see
A guiding hand;
The pitfalls set for me
Were grimly planned.
But always when and where
They opened wide,
Someone who seemed to care
Stood by my side.

When up the pathway dark
I stumbled on,
Afar, ahead a spark
Of guidance shone.
When forked the tragic trail
And sad my plight,
My guardian without fail
Would lead me right.

How merciful a Mind
my life has planned!

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poem by Robert William Service
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Heart O' The North

And when I come to the dim trail-end,
I who have been Life's rover,
This is all I would ask, my friend,
Over and over and over:

A little space on a stony hill
With never another near me,
Sky o' the North that's vast and still,
With a single star to cheer me;

Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone
Graven by those who love me --
There would I lie alone, alone,
With a single pine above me;

Pine that the north wind whinneys through --
Oh, I have been Life's lover!
But there I'd lie and listen to
Eternity passing over.

poem by Robert William Service
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Words

If on isle of the sea
I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
A Dictionary.
For though I love life's scene,
It seems absurd,
My greatest joy has been
The printed word.

Though painter with delight
May colours blend,
They are but in his sight
Means to an end.
Yet while I harmonise
Or pattern them,
A precious word I prize
Like to a gem.

A fiddler lures fine tone
From gut and wood;

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poem by Robert William Service
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My Cuckoo Clock

I bought a cuckoo clock
And glad was I
To hear its tick and tock,
Its dulcet cry.
But Jones, whose wife is young
And pretty too,
Winced when that bird gave tongue:
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

I have a lady friend
Whom I would wed,
For dalliance should end
In bridal bed.
Until the thought occurred:
Can she be true?
And then I heard that bird:
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Though ignorance is bliss
And love be blind,

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poem by Robert William Service
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Dedication To Providence

I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme,
My fancies into verse to weave;
For as I walked my words would chime
So bell-like I could scarce believe;
My rhymes rippled like a brook,
My stanzas bloomed like blossoms gay:
And that is why I dream this book
A verseman's holiday.

The palm-blades brindle in the blaze
Of sunsets splendouring the sea;
The Gloaming is a lilac haze
That impish stars stab eagerly. . . .
O Land of Song! Oh golden clime!
O happy me, whose work is play!
Please take this tribute of my rhymes:
A verseman's holiday.

poem by Robert William Service
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Poor Poet

'A man should write to please himself,'
He proudly said.
Well, see his poems on the shelf,
Dusty, unread.

When he came to my shop each day,
So peaked and cold,
I'd sneak one of his books away
And say 'twas sold.

And then by chance he looked below,
And saw a stack
Of his own work,--speechless with woe
He came not back.

I hate to think he took to drink,
And passed away;
I have not heard of him a word
Unto this day.

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poem by Robert William Service
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To A Tycoon

Since much has been your mirth
And fair your fate,
Friend, leave your lot of earth
Less desolate.
With frailing overdue,
Why don't you try
The bit of God in you
To justify?

Try to discern the grace
All greed above,
That may uplift the race
To realm of love.
For in you is a spark,
A heaven-glow,
That will illume the dark
Before you go.

Aye, though it be that you
To Faith are blind,

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poem by Robert William Service
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Our Daily Bread

"Give me my daily bread.
It seems so odd,
When all is done and said,
This plea to God.
To pray for cake might be
The thing to do;
But bread, it seems to me,
Is just our due.

"Give me my daily toil,"
I ought to say -
(If from life's cursed coil
I'd time to pray.)
Give me my daily sweat,
My body sore,
So that bread I may get
To toil for more.

"Give me my daily breath,"
Through half a sob,

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poem by Robert William Service
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Lindy Lou

If the good King only knew,
Lindy Lou,
What a cherub child are you,
It is true,
He would step down from his throne,
And would claim you for his own,
Then whatever would I do,
Lindy Lou?

As I kiss your tiny feet,
Lindy Lou,
I just feel I want to eat
All of you.
What's so heaven-sweet and mild
As a happy baby-child?
If you died I would die too,
Lindy Lou?

What's so lovely on this earth,
Lindy Lou,

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poem by Robert William Service
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Humility

My virtues in Carara stone
Cut carefully you all my scan;
Beneath I lie, a fetid bone,
The marble worth more than the man.

If on my pure tomb they should grave
My vices,--how the folks would grin!
And say with sympathetic wave:
"Like us he was a man of sin."

And somehow he consoled thereby,
Knowing they may, though Hades bent,
When finally they come to die,
Enjoy a snow-white monument.

And maybe it is just as well
When we from life and lust are riven,
That though our souls should sink to hell
Our tombs point: Destination Heaven!

poem by Robert William Service
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