Robert W. Service Quotes

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

Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things. It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe.

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.

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,But you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.

A promise made is a debt unpaid.

Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit - It's the keeping your chin up that's hard.

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

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

It's easy to fight when everything's right And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; It's easy to cheer when victory's near, And wallow in fields that are gory. It's a different song when everything's wrong, When you're feeling infernally mortal; When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, Buck up, little soldier, and chortle!

The Wanderlust has got me... by the belly-aching fire

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

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

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

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.

Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster; There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so! As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master, And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe, We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere, The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.

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

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

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.

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

Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.

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

Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark.

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

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.

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.

When children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; When we thank our God for our grief today, and blazon from sea to sea In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace ... that will be Victory.

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

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

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.

Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and night and the stars.

I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter's chime Will ring the curtain down on you.