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Robert W Service - To The Man Of The High North
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My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming 
I`ve drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, 
Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, 
Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam. 

I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices 
From peak snow-diademed to regal star; 
Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices, 
The pregnant voices of the Things That Are. 

The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us; 
The gold-delirium, the ferine strife; 
The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us; 
Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life. 

The nameless men who nameless rivers travel, 
And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone; 
The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel 
The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone. 

These will I sing, and if one of you linger 
Over my pages in the Long, Long Night, 
And on some lone line lay a calloused finger, 
Saying: "It`s human-true — it hits me right"; 
Then will I count this loving toil well spent; 
Then will I dream awhile — content, content.
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