December 11, 2008

• Not my Favorite Robert Service Christmas Poem

  I’m saving the favorite for nearer to Christmas.  Meanwhile, enjoy–

  White Christmas
      by Robert W. Service

  My folks think I’m a serving maid
  Each time I visit home;
  They do not dream I ply a trade
  As old as Greece or Rome;
  For if they found I’d fouled their name
  And was not white as snow,
  I’m sure that they would die of shame . . .
  Please, God, they’ll never know.

  I clean the paint from off my face,
  In sober black I dress;
  Of coquetry I leave no trace
  To give them vague distress;
  And though it causes me a pang
  To play such sorry tricks,
  About my neck I meekly hang
  A silver crufix.

  And so with humble step I go
  Just like a child again,
  To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
  A soul without a stain;
  So well I play my contrite part
  I make myself believe
  There’s not a stain within my heart
  On Holy Christmas Eve.

  With double natures we are vext,
  And what we feel, we are;
  A saint one day, a sinner next,
  A red light or a star;
  A prostitute or proselyte,
  And in each part sincere:
  So I become a vestal white
  One week in every year.

  For this I say without demur
  From out life’s lurid lore,
  Each righteous woman has in her
  A tincture of the whore;
  While every harpy of the night,
  As I have learned too well;
  Holds in her heart a heaven-light
  To ransom her from hell.

  So I’ll go home and sweep and dust;
  I’ll make the kitchen fire,
  And be a model of daughters just
  The best they could desire;
  I’ll fondle them and cook their food,
  And Mother dear will say:
  “Thank God! my darling is as good
  As when she went away.”

  But after New Year’s Day I’ll fill
  My bag and though they grieve,
  I’ll bid them both good-bye until
  Another Christmas Eve;
  And then . . . a knock upon the door:
  I’ll find them waiting there,
  And angel-like I’ll come once more
  In answer to their prayer.

  Then Lo! one night when candle-light
  Gleams mystic on the snow,
  And music swells of Christmas bells,
  I’ll come, no more to go:
  The old folks need my love and care,
  Their gold shall gild my dross,
  And evermore my breast shall bear
  My little silver cross.

  • 11:12 pm
  • 6 Comments