Robert Service

>It seems as if the day was not wholly profane in which we have given
heed to some natural object. The fall of snowflakes in a still air,
preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet over
a wide sheet of water, and over plains; the waving ryefield; the mimic
waving of acres of houstonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and
ripple before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy
lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts all trees
to windharps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the flames, or
of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the
sittingroom,--these are the music and pictures of the most ancient
religion. My house stands in low land, with limited outlook, and on the
skirt of the village. But I go with my friend to the shore of our little
river, and with one stroke of the paddle I leave the village politics
and personalities, yes, and the world of villages and personalities
behind, and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight, too
bright almost for spotted man to enter without novitiate and probation.
We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty; we dip our hands in this
painted element; our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms.
A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest, most
heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power and taste, ever
decked and enjoyed, establishes itself on the instant. These sunset
clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their private and
ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I am taught the poorness
of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury
have early learned that they must work as enhancement and sequel to this
original beauty. I am overinstructed for my return. Henceforth I shall
be hard to please. I cannot go back to toys. I am grown expensive and
sophisticated. I can no longer live without elegance, but a countryman
shall be my master of revels. He who knows the most; he who knows
what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the
heavens, and how to come at these enchantments,--is the rich and royal
man. Only as far as the masters of the world have called in nature
to their aid, can they reach the height of magnificence. This is the
meaning of their hanging-gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands,
parks and preserves, to back their faulty personality with these
strong accessories.

>I do not wonder that the landed interest should be
invincible in the State with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe
and invite; not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender
and poetic stars, eloquent of secret promises. We heard what the rich
man said, we knew of his villa, his grove, his wine and his company, but
the provocation and point of the invitation came out of these beguiling
stars. In their soft glances I see what men strove to realize in some
Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical lights of
the horizon and the blue sky for the background which save all our works
of art, which were otherwise bawbles. When the rich tax the poor with
servility and obsequiousness, they should consider the effect of men
reputed to be the possessors of nature, on imaginative minds. Ah! if
the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches! A boy hears a military
band play on the field at night, and he has kings and queens and famous
chivalry palpably before him. He hears the echoes of a horn in a
hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for example, which converts the
mountains into an Aeolian harp,--and this supernatural tiralira restores
to him the Dorian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and all divine hunters and
huntresses. Can a musical note be so lofty, so haughtily beautiful!
To the poor young poet, thus fabulous is his picture of society; he
is loyal; he respects the rich; they are rich for the sake of his
imagination; how poor his fancy would be, if they were not rich! That
they have some high-fenced grove which they call a park; that they live
in larger and better-garnished saloons than he has visited, and go in
coaches, keeping only the society of the elegant, to watering-places
and to distant cities,--these make the groundwork from which he
has delineated estates of romance, compared with which their actual
possessions are shanties and paddocks. The muse herself betrays her son,
and enhances the gifts of wealth and well-born beauty by a radiation
out of the air, and clouds, and forests that skirt the road,--a certain
haughty favor, as if from patrician genii to patricians, a kind of
aristocracy in nature, a prince of the power of the air.

The last line kills me.

>The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes so easily, may not be
always found, but the material landscape is never far off. We can
find these enchantments without visiting the Como Lake, or the Madeira
Islands. We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In every landscape
the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth,
and that is seen from the first hillock as well as from the top of the
Alleghanies. The stars at night stoop down over the brownest, homeliest
common with all the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the
Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt. The uprolled clouds and the
colors of morning and evening will transfigure maples and alders. The
difference between landscape and landscape is small, but there is
great difference in the beholders. There is nothing so wonderful in any
particular landscape as the necessity of being beautiful under which
every landscape lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty
breaks in everywhere.

The Cremation of Sam McGee Related Poem Content Details
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

I was in metro-Atlanta. I just traveled the US for the last year. Drove through all lower 48, hit like 23 National Parks, etc etc. I drove through the Ozarks and I thought they were awesome. They just felt old and like they had a lot of stories to tell (as gay as that sounds). Remind me a lot of the Appalachian mountains. A month alone is quite a long time to chill in the woods. I appreciate that though. A week is the longest I've done.

But yea, Idaho is pretty epic /out/. As you mentioned, a ridiculous amount of national forest just north of Boise. I just went camping with some buddies 2 hours north of Boise in the Boise National Forest and it was the first time I saw the band of the Milky Way. There is an insane amount of land out here to explore, so as long as I find a good job out here, I don't see myself leaving. Thrilled to be out of the fucking massive shithole city that is Atlanta though.

Forgive the shit writing, I'm hungover and it feels like I've been hit by a Mack truck. Badlands was pretty cool by the way. That was the one of the first NPs I went to on my trip.

Some more Service for ya.

The Three Voices

The waves have a story to tell me,
As I lie on the lonely beach;
Chanting aloft in the pine-tops,
The wind has a lesson to teach;
But the stars sing an anthem of glory
I cannot put into speech.

The waves tell of ocean spaces,
Of hearts that are wild and brave,
Of populous city places,
Of desolate shores they lave,
Of men who sally in quest of gold
To sink in an ocean grave.

The wind is a mighty roamer;
He bids me keep me free,
Clean from the taint of the gold-lust,
Hardy and pure as he;
Cling with my love to nature,
As a child to the mother-knee.

But the stars throng out in their glory,
And they sing of the God in man;
They sing of the Mighty Master,
Of the loom his fingers span,
Where a star or a soul is a part of the whole,
And weft in the wondrous plan.

Here by the camp-fire's flicker,
Deep in my blanket curled,
I long for the peace of the pine-gloom,
When the scroll of the Lord is unfurled,
And the wind and the wave are silent,
And world is singing to world.

Another. Gonna bump this fucker 'til it can't be bumped no mo'.

Comfort Say!

You've struck a heap of trouble --
Bust in business, lost your wife;
No one cares a cent about you,
You don't care a cent for life;

Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
Health is failing, wish you'd die --
Why, you've still the sunshine left you
And the big, blue sky.

Sky so blue it makes you wonder
If it's heaven shining through;
Earth so smiling 'way out yonder,
Sun so bright it dazzles you;

Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
All their fragrance on the breeze;
Dancing shadows, green, still meadows --
Don't you mope, you've still got these.

These, and none can take them from you;
These, and none can weigh their worth.
What! you're tired and broke and beaten? --
Why, you're rich -- you've got the earth!

Yes, if you're a tramp in tatters,
While the blue sky bends above
You've got nearly all that matters --
You've got God, and God is love.

Another

The Call of the Wild

Have you gazed on 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 rag-time 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.

my grandfather's favorite poet
the shooting of dan mcgrew is great

Absolutely dude. Glad to hear someone else knows of Service. It's super comfy. I'm gonna keep this fucker bumped as long as I can. It's particularly relevent for sc/out/s. Fucking love his works. Here's another.

Grin

If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about -- Grin.
If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt -- Grin.
Don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout,
Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;

Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out -- And grin.
This life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true of grin.
If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you, So grin.

If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue;
Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through;
If they call you "Little Sunshine", wish that they'd no troubles, too --
You may -- grin.

Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough, You'll grin.
Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough, Yet grin.
There's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff;
You're a fighter from away back, and you won't take a rebuff;

Your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough --
Don't give in. If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff;
You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff, And grin.

The Spell of the Yukon

I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy -- I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.

I wanted the gold, and I got it --
Came out with a fortune last fall, --
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth -- and I'm one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.

It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,

Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.

The summer -- no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.

The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness --
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.

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 good-by -- 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

I had a book of Robert Service poetry with me when I was 15 and lived for five weeks in the Yukon wilderness. Will always have a special place in my heart