I've wearied of so many things
Adored in youthful days;
Music no more my spirit wings,
E'en when Master play.
For stage and screen I have no heart,
Great paintings leave me cold;
Alas! I've lost the love of Art
That raptured me of old.
Only my love of books is left,
Yet that begins to pall;
And if of it I am bereft,
I'll read no more at all.
Then when I am too frail to walk
I'll sit out in the sun,
And there with Nature I will talk . . .
Last friend and dearest one.
For Nature's all in all to me;
My other loves are vain;
Her bosom brought me forth and she
Will take me back again.
So I will let her have her way,
For I've a feeling odd,
Whatever wiser men may say,
That she herself is GOD.
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It's good in the telling of the story and in the rhyme and flow of course but it's also bad in the same regard. I've found a few pieces by Service that I can attribute that apathetical viewing to, I feel.
Perhaps it's only I that pertains to see and read that in his pieces of certain accord, then again: perhaps not.
a nice piece, could have been better, but a nice piece by Service just the same.
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