Poem by Robert William Service

The Sceptic

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.

1. The Great Recall
2. Kathleen
3. Grin
4. Our Hero
5. The Old

Louisa Bevington The Sceptic ("SWEET were the faiths our wishes bred; cruel is faithless fate")

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