Robert Service Poems

  • 351.  
    He sleeps beside me in the bed;
    Upon my breast I hold his head;Oh how I would that we were wed,
  • 352.  
    When you come home I'll not be round
    To welcome you.They'll take you to a grassy mound
  • 353.  
    I gave an eye to save from night
    A babe born blind;And now with eager semi-sight
  • 354.  
    Ruins in Rome are four a penny,
    And here along the Appian WayI see the monuments of many
  • 355.  
    By parents I would not be pinned,
    Nor in my home abide,For I was wanton as the wind
  • 356.  
    I'll wait until my money's gone
    Before I take the sleeping pills;Then when they find me in the dawn,
  • 357.  
    As home from church we two did plod,
    “Grandpa,” said Rosy, “What is God?”Seeking an answer to her mind,
  • 358.  
    When they shall close my careless eyes
    And look their last upon my face,I fear that some will say: “her lies
  • 359.  
    Though elegance I ill afford,
    My living-room is green and gold;The former tenant was a lord
  • 360.  
    I look at no one, me;
    I pass them on the stair;Shadows! I don't see;
  • 361.  
    Three gentlemen live close beside me-
    A painter of pictures bizarre,A poet whose virtues might guide me,
  • 362.  
    I'm one of these haphazard chaps
    Who sit in cafes drinking;A most improper taste, perhaps,
  • 363.  
    He gives me such a bold and curious look,
    That young American across the way,As if he'd like to put me in a book
  • 364.  
    In Paris on a morn of May
    I sent a radio transalanticTo catch a steamer on the way,
  • 365.  
    Beneath the trees I lounged at ease
    And watched them speed the pace;They swerved and swung, they clutched and clung,
  • 366.  
    With peace and rest
    And wisdom sage,Ripeness is best
  • 367.  
    Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd
    Rain of confetti fling;Their joy is lush, their laughter loud,
  • 368.  
    We pitied him because
    He lived alone;His tiny cottage was
  • 369.  
    Oh, I was born a lyric babe
    (That last word is a bore-It's only rhyme is astrolabe,”
  • 370.  
    Here lyeth one
    Who loved the sun;Who lived with zest,
  • 371.  
    I envy not those gay galoots
    Who count on dying in their boots;For that, to tell the sober truth
  • 372.  
    I saw the Greatest Man on Earth,
    Aye, saw him with my proper eyes.A loin-cloth spanned his proper girth,
  • 373.  
    He had the grocer's counter-stoop,
    That little man so grey and neat;His moustache had a doleful droop,
  • 374.  
    I used to sing, when I was young,
    The joy of idleness;But now I'm grey I hold my tongue,
  • 375.  
    Each New Year's Eve I used to brood
    On my misdoings of the past,And vowed: “This year I'll be so good-
  • 376.  
    I'd hate to be centipede (of legs I've only two),
    For if new trousers I should need (as oftentimes I do),The bill would come to such a lot 'twould tax an Astorbilt,
  • 377.  
    So crystal clear it is to me
    That when I die I cease to be,All else seems sheer stupidity.
  • 378.  
    “If you repent,” the Parson said,”
    Your sins will be forgiven.Aye, even on your dying bed
  • 379.  
    That scathing word I used in scorn
    (Though half a century ago)Comes back to me this April morn,
  • 380.  
    Do you recall that happy bike
    With bundles on our backs?How near to heaven it was like
  • 381.  
    I looked down on a daisied lawn
    To where a host of tiny eyesOf snow and gold from velvet shone
  • 382.  
    It's not for laws I've broken
    That bitter tears I've wept,But solemn vows I've spoken
  • 383.  
    Poets may praise a wattle thatch
    Doubtfully waterproof;Let me uplift my lowly latch
  • 384.  
    Behold! the Spanish flag they're raising
    Before the Palace courtyard gate;To watch its progress bold and blazing
  • 385.  
    Rosemary has of dolls a dozen,
    Yet she disdains them all;While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin
  • 386.  
    One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar,
    To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee-the choice is thine, is thine,
  • 387.  
    The porter in the Pullman car
    Was charming, as they sometimes are.He scanned my baggage tags: “Are you
  • 388.  
    The red-roofed house of dream design
    Looks three ways on the sea;For fifty years I've made it mine,
  • 389.  
    Oh how it would enable me
    To titillate my vanityIf you should choose to label me
  • 390.  
    It hurts my pride that I should be
    The issue of a night of lust;Yet even Bishops, you'll agree,
  • 391.  
    Oh you who are shy of the popular eye,
    (Though most of us seek to survive it)Just think of the goldfish who wanted to die
  • 392.  
    Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
    Driving a red-meat bus out there-How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
  • 393.  
    'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
    (Oh, I remember so well, so well);I walked with my love in a sea of light,
  • 394.  
    In youth I gnawed life's bitter rind
    And shared the rugged lotOf fellows rude and unrefined,
  • 395.  
    You talk o' prayer an' such-
    Well, I jest don't know how;I guess I got as much
  • 396.  
    When young I was an Atheist,
    Yea, pompous as a pigeonNo opportunity I missed
  • 397.  
    The lady at the corner wicket
    Sold me a stamp, I stooped to lick it,And on the envelope to stick it;
  • 398.  
    Painter, would you make my picture?
    Just forget the moral stricture. Let me sit
  • 399.  
    Courage mes gars:
    La guerre est proche.
  • 400.  
    ‘A man should write to please himself,'
    He proudly said.Well, see his poems on the shelf,
Total 831 poems written by Robert Service

Poem of the day

In Memory Of John And Robert Ware
 by Oliver Wendell Holmes

No mystic charm, no mortal art,
Can bid our loved companions stay;
The bands that clasp them to our heart
Snap in death's frost and fall apart;
Like shadows fading with the day,
They pass away.

The young are stricken in their pride,
...

Read complete poem

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