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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.
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Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3225 reads)
The tragedy innate in life


The tragedy innate in life
    Is with me as I write,
And in my heart the naked knife
    Is twisting noon and night;
And yet today upon my way
    I saw a soothing sight.

Old Marthe was coming form the Mass
    And fingering her beads;
With sympathy I sought to pass,
    For grievous are her deeds,
And comforting's a precious thing
    When pious pity pleads.

Yet though her eyes were all ashine
    Her tears were  those of joy:
Said she," Dear Doctor, you divine
    I'm praying for my boy . . .
He's poorly, and you understand
    How wounds of war destroy.

"He coughed and coughed the weary night,
    His face was wan to see,
So I went with the dawning light
    In church to bend a knee . . .
Then as I prayed for Heaven's aid
    The saints smiled down on me.

"Aye, as I rose each Holy One
    Was gazing down on me;
Each Saint was lighted by the sun
    And beautiful to see:
So sweet they smiled I knew my child
    The Lord would spare to me."

No woman's faith would I destroy
    Though dark was my demur;
With wasting woe her boy I know
    From bed will never stir. . . .
Yet as I grieve I too believe
    The Saints smiled down on her.

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