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When Will came home his wife was knitting;

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
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Portrait

Published by Susan on 07/30/2003 (2488 reads)
Because life's passing show...

Because life's passing show
    Is little to his mind,
There is a man I know
    Indrawn from human kind.
His dearest friends are books;
    Yet oh how glad he talks
To birds and trees and brooks
    On lonely walks.

He takes the same still way
    By grove and hill and sea;
He lives that each new day
    May like the last one be.
He hates all kinds of change;
    His step is sure and slow:
Though life has little range
    He loves it so.

He makes it his one aim
    His pleasure to repeat;
To always do the same,
    Since sameness is so sweet;
In simple things to find
    The dearest to his mood.
His true life in his mind
    Is oh so good!

Please leave him to his dream,
    This old, unweary man,
Who shuns the busy stream
    And has outlived his span.
Just leave him on his shelf
    To watch the world go by . . .
Because he is--myself: 
    Yea, such be I.


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