Breath Is Enough

- by Robert William Service
  
I draw sweet air
Deeply and long,
As pure as prayer,
As sweet as song.
Where lilies glow
And roses wreath,
Heart-joy I know
Is just to breathe.

Aye, so I think
By shore or sea,
As deep I drink
Of purity.
This brave machine,
Bare to the buff,
I keep ice-clean,
Breath is enough.

From mountain stream
To covert cool
The world, I deem,
Is wonderful;
The great, the small,
The smooth, the rough,
I love it all,--
Breath is enough.

White Christmas

by Robert William Service

My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .
Please, God, they'll never know.

I clean the paint from off my face,
In sober black I dress;
Of coquetry I leave no trace
To give them vague distress;
And though it causes me a pang
To play such sorry tricks,
About my neck I meekly hang
A silver crufix.

And so with humble step I go
Just like a child again,
To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
A soul without a stain;
So well I play my contrite part
I make myself believe
There's not a stain within my heart
On Holy Christmas Eve.

With double natures we are vext,
And what we feel, we are;
A saint one day, a sinner next,
A red light or a star;
A prostitute or proselyte,
And in each part sincere:
So I become a vestal white
One week in every year.

For this I say without demur
From out life's lurid lore,
Each righteous women has in her
A tincture of the whore;
While every harpy of the night,
As I have learned too well;
Holds in her heart a heaven-light
To ransom her from hell.

So I'll go home and sweep and dust;
I'll make the kitchen fire,
And be a model of daughters just
The best they could desire;
I'll fondle them and cook their food,
And Mother dear will say:
"Thank God! my darling is as good
As when she went away."

But after New Year's Day I'll fill
My bag and though they grieve,
I'll bid them both good-bye until
Another Christmas Eve;
And then . . . a knock upon the door:
I'll find them waiting there,
And angel-like I'll come once more
In answer to their prayer.

Then Lo! one night when candle-light
Gleams mystic on the snow,
And music swells of Christmas bells,
I'll come, no more to go:
The old folks need my love and care,
Their gold shall gild my dross,
And evermore my breast shall bear
My little silver cross.

THIS ONE BRINGS MANY THINGS TO MIND BESIDES CATS AND WINGS.

 

The Cat With Wings 
by Robert William Service

You never saw a cat with wings,
I'll bet a dollar -- well, I did;
'Twas one of those fantastic things
One runs across in old Madrid.
A walloping big tom it was,
(Maybe of the Angora line),
With silken ears and velvet paws,
And silver hair, superbly fine.

It sprawled upon a crimson mat,
Yet though crowds came to gaze on it,
It was a supercilious cat,
And didn't seem to mind a bit.
It looked at us with dim disdain,
And indolently seemed to sigh:
"There's not another cat in Spain
One half so marvelous as I."

Its owner gently stroked its head,
And tickled it with fingers light.
"Ah no, it cannot fly," he said;
"But see - it has the wings all right."
Then tenderly from off its back
He raised, despite its feline fears,
Appendages that seemed to lack
Vitality - like rabbit's ears.

And then the vision that I had
Of Tabbie soaring through the night,
Quick vanished, and I felt so sad
For that poor pussy's piteous plight.
For though frustration has it stings,
Its mockeries in Hope's despite,
The hell of hells is to have wings

Yet be denied the bliss of flight. 

Cat picture and story here.

THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS AS THEY SEEM.

Domestic Scene 

by Robert William Service

The meal was o'er, the lamp was lit,

The family sat in its glow;

The Mother never ceased to knit,

The Daughter never slacked to sew;

The Father read his evening news,

The Son was playing solitaire:

If peace a happy home could choose

I'm sure you'd swear that it was there.

BUT

The Mother:

"Ah me! this hard lump in my breast . . .

Old Doctor Brown I went to see;

Because it don't give me no rest,

He fears it may malignant be.

To operate it might be well,

And keep the evil of awhile;

But oh the folks I dare not tell,

And so I sit and knit and smile."

The Father:

"The mortgage on the house is due,

My bank account is overdrawn;

I'm at my wits end what to do -

I've plunged, but now my hope is gone.

For coverage my brokers call,

But I'm so deeply in the red . . .

If ever I should lose my all,

I'll put a bullet in my head."

The Daughter:

"To smile I do the best I can,

But it's so hard to act up gay.

My lover is a married man,

And now his child is on the way.

My plight I cannot long conceal,

And though I bear their bitter blame,

Unto my dears I must reveal

My sin, my sorrow and my shame."

The Son:

"Being a teller in a Bank

I'd no right in a blackjack game.

But for my ruin I must thank

My folly for a floozie dame.

To face the Manager I quail;

If he should check my cash I'm sunk . . .

Before they throw me into gaol

I guess I'd better do a bunk."

So sat they in the Winter eve

In sweet serenity becalmed,

So peaceful you could scarce believe

They shared the torments of the damned . . .

Yet there the Mother smiles and knits;

The Daughter sews white underwear;

The Father reads and smokes and spits,

While Sonny Boy plays solitaire.

beautiful painting by: OLAF ERLA graphic design and digital art
(click to enlarge and please visit his site for more)