Poem by Robert William Service

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.

1. Prelude (In youth I gnawed life's bitter rind)
2. Freethinker
3. Prelude (To smite Apollo's lyre I am unable)
4. The Search (Happiness, a-roving round)
5. Old Codger

Louisa Bevington The Sceptic ("SWEET were the faiths our wishes bred; cruel is faithless fate")

Print

1292 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version