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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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Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert

The Hearth-stone

Published by Susan on 08/02/2003 (3186 reads)
The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they...

The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they
            Drift down the air;
December's sky is sodden grey,
            Dark with despair;
A bleary dawn will light anon
            A world of care.

My name is cut into a stone,
            No care have I;
The letters drool, as I alone
            Forgotten lie:
With weed my grave is overgrown,
            None cometh nigh.

A hundred hollow years will speed
            As I decay;
And I'll be comrade to the weed,
            Kin to the clay;
Until some hind in homing-need
            Will pass my way.

Until some lover seeking hearth
            With joy will see
My nameless stone sunk in the earth
            And it will be
The ruddy birth of childish mirth,
            And elder glee.

And none will dream it bore my name
            Decades ago;
A scribbling fool of little fame,
            Who loved life so . . .
Well, flesh is grass and Time must pass,--
            Heigh ho! Heigh ho!

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