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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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Sylvan Destiny

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2960 reads)
My olive trees are very old,

Sylvan Destiny

My olive trees are very old,
A hundred years, or two or three;
Their trunks fantastically boled
Look mediaevally at me.
My  mild-eyed goats are gravely glad
To shade them from the hungry heat,
And as I tend them, scantly clad,
It happies me to see them eat.

Poor toiler! Don't you envy me
With no man to dispute my state;
My life superlatively free,
My solitude inviolate.
With never cloud of care to fret
My dreaming in a silver glade,
While piping on a flageolet
I read Catullus in the shade.

Oh! Am I wise or am I not
Who choose to live apart from men?
My home a tiny, red-tiled cot,
My hope to ply a humble pen.
My olive trees are twenty-five,
My dainty-stepping goats are seven;
I praise the gods that I'm alive
To demonstrate my daily heaven.

What luck I bought this spot on earth,
Although it cost me all I had;
And every dawn with sober mirth
I'll everlastingly be glad.
A silver bell shall grace each goat,
Each olive tree shall be my friend,
So luminously  and remote
Let me go gentling to the end.

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