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Poem by Robert William Service
Birds have no consciousness of doom: Yon thrush that serenades me daily From scented snow of hawthorn bloom Would not trill out his glee so gaily, Could he foretell his songful breath Would sadly soon be stilled in death. Yon lambs that frolic on the lea And incarnate the joy of life, Would scarce disport them could they see The shadow of the butcher's knife: Oh Nature, with your loving ruth, You spare them knowledge of Dark Truth. To sad humanity alone, (Creation's triumph ultimate) The grimness of the grave is known, The dusty destiny await . . . . Oh bird and beast, with joy, elance Effulgently your ingorance! Oh man, previsioning the hearse, With fortitude accept your curse!
Robert William Service
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