The Lost Master
Robert William Service 1874 – 1958
"And when I come to die," he said,
"Ye shall not lay me out in state,
Nor leave your laurels at my head,
Nor cause your men of speech orate;
No monument your gift shall be,
No column in the Hall of Fame;
But just this line ye grave for me:
`He played the game.'"
So when his glorious task was done,
It was not of his fame we thought;
It was not of his battles won,
But of the pride with which he fought;
But of his zest, his ringing laugh,
His trenchant scorn of praise or blame:
And so we graved his epitaph,
"He played the game."
And so we, too, in humbler ways
Went forth to fight the fight anew,
And heeding neither blame nor praise,
We held the course he set us true.
And we, too, find the fighting sweet;
And we, too, fight for fighting's sake;
And though we go down in defeat,
And though our stormy hearts may break,
We will not do our Master shame:
We'll play the game, please God,
We'll play the game.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 01, 2023
- 56 sec read
- 149 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | axaabcbC dedefcfC ghghijijcxc |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 907 |
Words | 187 |
Stanzas | 3 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 11 |
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"The Lost Master" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/32580/the-lost-master>.
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