To the Man of the High North
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.
Autres oeuvres par Robert W. Service...
