Robert W. Service. Robert W. Service

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The winter! the brightness that blinds you,

      The white land locked tight as a drum,

      The cold fear that follows and finds you,

      The silence that bludgeons you dumb.

      The snows that are older than history,

      The woods where the weird shadows slant;

      The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,

      I’ve bade ’em goodbye — but I can’t.

      There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,

      And the rivers all run God knows where;

      There are lives that are erring and aimless,

      And deaths that just hang by a hair;

      There are hardships that nobody reckons;

      There are valleys unpeopled and still;

      There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons,

      And I want to go back — and I will.

      They’re making my money diminish;

      I’m sick of the taste of champagne.

      Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish

      I’ll pike to the Yukon again.

      I’ll fight — and you bet it’s no sham-fight;

      It’s hell! — but I’ve been there before;

      And it’s better than this by a damsite —

      So me for the Yukon once more.

      There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;

      It’s luring me on as of old;

      Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting

      So much as just finding the gold.

      It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,

      It’s the forests where silence has lease;

      It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,

      It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

      The Call of the Wild

      Have you gazed on the naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,

      Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,

      Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,

      Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?

      Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,

      Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

      Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;

      Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

      Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,

      The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?

      Have you whistled bits of ragtime at the end of all creation,

      And learned to know the desert’s little ways?

      Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges,

      Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?

      Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?

      Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you.

      Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

      (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)

      Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,

      Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

      Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,

      Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

      And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?

      Then hearken to the Wild — it’s wanting you.

      Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,

      Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?

      “Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,

      Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?

      Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?

      (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.)

      The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things —

      Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you.

      They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,

      They have soaked you in convention through and through;

      They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching —

      But can’t you hear the Wild? — it’s calling you.

      Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;

      Let us journey to a lonely land I know.

      There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us,

      And the Wild is calling, calling … let us go.

      The Heart of the Sourdough

      There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon,

      There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,

      And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June.

      There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;

      There where the silences are spawned, and the light of hellfire flows

      Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose.

      There СКАЧАТЬ