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Let laureates sing with rapturous swing Of the wonder and glory of work;

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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
All Entries 2002
Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert


Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (3822 reads)
This brain-box, with its thirty million cells...

This brain-box, with its thirty million cells,
(Or more or less, - I really do not know),
That registers experience and swells
With wisdom, growing as we grow,
Coordinating personality, -
A tiny shock, - and it has ceased to be.

A tiny knock and all we know as "we",
The ardour of our eloquence and flame,
Forever and forever ends to be,
Goes back into the dark from which it cam . . .
Oh ye proud peoples! grovel in the dust
From which you rose, - return to it you must.

Return you must, and pay the debt you owe
To Nature, while this brain miraculous,
This wealth of thirty million cells or so,
Will not be worth a lousy tinker's cuss
When you surrender it to Nature's claim
Into the elements from which it came.

Matter is indestructible; nothing is lost.
There is no death, no end, just change and change;
Our individualities are tossed
Into oblivion, but by some strange
Sweet chemistry tomorrow we may be
Petal of rose, or wing of honey-bee . . .
O God of Nature, please make me a tree.

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