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Robert W Service - Belated BardRobert W Service - Belated Bard
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The songs I made from joy of earth         In wanton wandering, Are rapturous with Maytime mirth         And ectasy of Spring. But all the songs I sing today         Take tediously the ear: Novemberishly dark are they         With mortuary fear.         For half a century has gone         Since first I rang a rhyme; And that is long to linger on         The tolerance of Time. This blue-veined hand with which I write         Yet answers to my will; Though four-score years I count to-night         I am unsilent still. "Senile old fool!" I hear you say;         "Beside the dying fire You huddle and stiff-fingered play         Your tired and tinny lyre." Well, though your patience I may try,         Bear with me yet awhile, And though you scorn my singing I         Will thank you with a smile. For I such soul-delighting joy         Have found in simple rhyme, Since first a happy-hearted boy         I coaxed a word to chime, That ere I tryst with Mother Earth         Let from my heart arise A song of youth and starry mirth . . .         Then close my eyes.
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