ROBERT W. SERVICE

I have an intense dislike for artificial society. In France, one could lead a free life - to do what one wanted to do without interference or criticism from one's neighbors.

A promise made is a debt unpaid.

The only society I like is rough and tough, and the tougher the better. There's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win in the lifelong race.

It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe.

No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success; If he thinks he is a winner, then he is.

I remember little of the Yukon or what I wrote there.

I have some friends, some honest friends, and honest friends are few; My pipe of briar, my open fire, A book that's not too new.

Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.

Avoid extremes: be moderate In saving and in spending; An equable and easy gait Will win an easy ending.

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse.

His life, though none too long, Was never dull: Of woman, wine and song Bill had his full.

When we, the Workers, all demand: “What are we fighting for?’… Then, then we’ll end that stupid crime, that devil’s madness--War.

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lonely mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fate.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.

Our breath is brief, and being so Let's make our heaven here below, And lavish kindness as we go.

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

This is the law of the Yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive.

I have no doubts that the Devil grins, As seas of ink I spatter. Ye gods, forgive my “literary” sins – The other kind don’t matter.

Ah! the clock is always slow; it is later than you think.

Carry on! Carry on! Fight the good fight and true; Believe in you mission, greet life with a cheer.

The happy man is he who knows his limitations, yet bows to no false gods.