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Robert W. Service

Robert W. Service

Striving

Striving is life, yet life is striving;
I fight to live, yet live to fight;
The vital urge is in my driving,
Yet I must drive with all my might:
Each day a battle, and the fray
Stoutly renewed the coming day.
 
A am myself —yet when I strive
I build a self that’s truer, higher;
I keep my bit of God alive
And forgive me in heroic fire:
What if my goal I never gain —
Better to toil than to attain.
 
It is not what I do or make,
It is the travail of my trying;
The aim, the effort and the ache
Is in the end my glorifying:
Through triumph I may never see,
The will to win is victory.
 
Striving is strength: with all that’s in me
I will not falter in the fray;
And though no shining crown it win me,
I’ll fight unto my latest day:
Strive on! —and though I win no place,
Uphold the spirit of the race.
 
Behold yon peaks that mock my climbing. . . .
I peer from out the dusty plain;
Dark falls, the mission bells are chiming
As on to starry heights I strain;
Despite the night up, up I plod
To gain the golden meads of God.

Altre opere di Robert W. Service...
The Land God Forgot

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lordly mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fat… The lonely sunsets flame and die;
 1
The Key of the Street

“Miss Rosemary,” I dourly said, “Our balance verges on the red, We must cut down our overhead. One of the staff will have to go. There’s Mister Jones, he’s mighty…
Two Children

Give me your hand, oh little one! Like children be we two; Yet I am old, my day is done That barely breaks for you. A baby—basket hard you hold,
Distracted Druggist

'A shilling’s worth of quinine, pl… The customer demanded. The druggist went down on his knee… And from a cupboard handed The waiting man a tiny flask:
Cardiac

A mattock high he swung; I watched him at his toil; With never gulp of lung He gashed the ruddy soil. Thought I, I’d give my wealth
A Cabbage Patch

Folk ask if I’m alive, Most think I’m not; Yet gaily I contrive To till my plot. The world its way can go,
The Little Piou-Piou

(The French “Tommy”). Oh, some of us lolled in the chate… And some of us slinked in the slum… But now we are here with a song an… To serve at the sign of the drum.
The Lure of Little Voices

There’s a cry from out the lonelin… Do you hear it, do you fear it, yo… You’re a—sobbing in your sleep, de… Do you hear the Little Voices all… All a—begging me to leave you. Da…
My Foe

A Belgian Priest—Soldier Speaks; GURR! You cochon! Stand and fig… Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face!
The Walkers

(He speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the joy of w… Swinging down the tawny lanes with… Striding up the green hills, throu… Swishing through the woodlands whe…
The Squaw Man

The cow-moose comes to water, and… The net is in the eddy of the stre… The teepee stars the vivid sward w… And in the velvet gloom the fire’s… The night is ripe with quiet, rich…
Men of the High North

Men of the High North, the wild s… Islands of opal float on silver se… Swift splendors kindle, barbaric,… Pale ports of amber, golden argosi… Ringed all around us the proud pea…
Bessie's Boil

Says I to my Missis: “Ba goom, l… Says she: “You are right, Sam, I… A Boil as ‘ud make Job jealous.… Says I: “Go to ‘ospittel, Missis… Says she: “I just 'ate to be show…
Mud

Mud is Beauty in the making, Mud is melody awaking; Laughter, leafy whisperings, Butterflies with rainbow wings; Baby babble, lover’s sighs,
The Lost Master

“And when I come to die,” he said… “Ye shall not lay me out in state, Nor leave your laurels at my head, Nor cause your men of speech orate… No monument your gift shall be,



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