The Sceptic

Robert William Service

My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it’s because
I don’t know which loss hurt the worse—
My God or Santa Claus.

Next 10 Poems

• Robert William Service : The Score
• Robert William Service : The Scribe's Prayer
• Robert William Service : The Seance
• Robert William Service : The Search
• Robert William Service : The Seed
• Robert William Service : The Sewing-girl
• Robert William Service : The Shooting Of Dan Mcgrew
• Robert William Service : The Shorter Catechism
• Robert William Service : The Sightless Man
• Robert William Service : The Silent Ones

Previous 10 Poems

• Robert William Service : The Sacrifices
• Robert William Service : The Rover
• Robert William Service : The Robbers
• Robert William Service : The Rhyme Of The Restless Ones
• Robert William Service : The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man
• Robert William Service : The Revelation
• Robert William Service : The Return
• Robert William Service : The Release
• Robert William Service : The Red Retreat
• Robert William Service : The Record