Inspiration

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

How often have I started out

With no thought in my noodle,

And wandered here and there about,

Where fancy bade me toddle;

Till feeling faunlike in my glee

I've voiced some gay distiches,

Returning joyfully to tea,

A poem in my britches.

A-squatting on a thymy slope

With vast of sky about me,

I've scribbled on an envelope

The rhymes the hills would shout me;

The couplets that the trees would call,

The lays the breezes proffered . . .

Oh no, I didn't think at all -

I took what Nature offered.

For that's the way you ought to write -

Without a trace of trouble;

Be super-charged with high delight

And let the words out-bubble;

Be voice of vale and wood and stream

Without design or proem:

Then rouse from out a golden dream

To find you've made a poem.

So I'll go forth with mind a blank,

And sea and sky will spell me;

And lolling on a thymy bank

I'll take down what they tell me;

As Mother Nature speaks to me

Her words I'll gaily docket,

So I'll come singing home to tea

A poem in my pocket.

~  Robert William Service

Inspiration

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

How often have I started out

With no thought in my noodle,

And wandered here and there about,

Where fancy bade me toddle;

Till feeling faunlike in my glee

I've voiced some gay distiches,

Returning joyfully to tea,

A poem in my britches.

A-squatting on a thymy slope

With vast of sky about me,

I've scribbled on an envelope

The rhymes the hills would shout me;

The couplets that the trees would call,

The lays the breezes proffered . . .

Oh no, I didn't think at all -

I took what Nature offered.

For that's the way you ought to write -

Without a trace of trouble;

Be super-charged with high delight

And let the words out-bubble;

Be voice of vale and wood and stream

Without design or proem:

Then rouse from out a golden dream

To find you've made a poem.

So I'll go forth with mind a blank,

And sea and sky will spell me;

And lolling on a thymy bank

I'll take down what they tell me;

As Mother Nature speaks to me

Her words I'll gaily docket,

So I'll come singing home to tea

A poem in my pocket.

~  Robert William Service

Laughter

Photo credit: ronnieb from morguefile.com

I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games,

Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim.

I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride;

At social inanity, at swager, swank and side.

At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small,

Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all;

At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf. . . .

But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself.

Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God:

I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud.

Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool,

I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool.

And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants,

I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants.

For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame,

Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same.

Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan;

The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man.

For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear;

So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear.

Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee.

Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously.

For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone,

May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.

~ Robert William Service

Laughter

Photo credit: ronnieb from morguefile.com

I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games,

Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim.

I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride;

At social inanity, at swager, swank and side.

At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small,

Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all;

At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf. . . .

But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself.

Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God:

I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud.

Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool,

I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool.

And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants,

I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants.

For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame,

Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same.

Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan;

The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man.

For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear;

So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear.

Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee.

Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously.

For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone,

May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.

~ Robert William Service

Contentment

Bed and bread are all I need
In my happy day;
Love of Nature is my creed,
Unto her I pray;
Sun and sky my spirit feed
On my happy way.

To no man I bow the head,
None may master me;
I will eat my crust of bread
Lauding liberty;
And upon my truckle bed
Glory to be free.

You who grab for sordid gold,
You who fight for fame,
Shiny dross your fingers hold,
Empty is your aim.
--Soon we fatten graveyard mould,
Rich and poor the same.

So from world of want and woe
I retreat with dread;
Tuned to Nature glad I go
With my bite of bread:
Praising God I lay me low
On my truckle bed.

--Robert William Service

Contentment

Bed and bread are all I need
In my happy day;
Love of Nature is my creed,
Unto her I pray;
Sun and sky my spirit feed
On my happy way.

To no man I bow the head,
None may master me;
I will eat my crust of bread
Lauding liberty;
And upon my truckle bed
Glory to be free.

You who grab for sordid gold,
You who fight for fame,
Shiny dross your fingers hold,
Empty is your aim.
--Soon we fatten graveyard mould,
Rich and poor the same.

So from world of want and woe
I retreat with dread;
Tuned to Nature glad I go
With my bite of bread:
Praising God I lay me low
On my truckle bed.

--Robert William Service