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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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Archives > Books and Poetry > Poetry > Ballads Of Cheechako > To the Man of the High North

To the Man of the High North

Published by Webmaster on 07/21/2003 (3362 reads)
My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming...

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.


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