Robert Louis Stevenson
Dedicatory Poem For "Underwoods"
TO her, for I must still regard her As feminine in her degree, Who has been my unkind bombarder Year after year, in grief and glee, Year after year, with oaken tree; And yet
Sonnet V
Not undelightful, friend, our rustic ease To grateful hearts; for by especial hap, Deep nested in the hill’s enormous lap, With its own ring of walls and grove of trees, Sits, in deep shelter,
For Richmond's Garden Wall
WHEN Thomas set this tablet here, Time laughed at the vain chanticleer; And ere the moss had dimmed the stone, Time had defaced that garrison. Now I in turn keep watch and ward In
Come, Here Is Adieu To The City
COME, here is adieu to the city And hurrah for the country again. The broad road lies before me Watered with last night’s rain. The timbered country woos me With many a high and
The Sun Travels
The sun is not a-bed, when I At night upon my pillow lie; Still round the earth his way he takes, And morning after morning makes. While here at home, in shining day, We
De Ligurra
YOU fear, Ligurra – above all, you long – That I should smite you with a stinging song. This dreadful honour you both fear and hope – Both all in vain: you fall below
Mine Eyes Were Swift To Know Thee
MINE eyes were swift to know thee, and my heart As swift to love. I did become at once Thine wholly, thine unalterably, thine In honourable service, pure intent, Steadfast excess of love and
The Vagabond
Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip
Sonnet VII
The strong man’s hand, the snow-cool head of age, The certain-footed sympathies of youth – These, and that lofty passion after truth, Hunger unsatisfied in priest or sage Or the great men of former
Nest Eggs
Birds all the summer day Flutter and quarrel Here in the arbour-like Tent of the laurel. Here in the fork The brown nest is seated; For little blue eggs The mother keeps heated. While
The Hayloft
Through all the pleasant meadow-side The grass grew shoulder-high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide And cut it down to dry. Those green and sweetly smelling crops They led the waggons home;
The Land of Story-Books
At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl
Epitaphium Erotii
HERE lies Erotion, whom at six years old Fate pilfered. Stranger (when I too am cold, Who shall succeed me in my rural field), To this small spirit annual honours yield! Bright be thy
To Sydney
NOT thine where marble-still and white Old statues share the tempered light And mock the uneven modern flight, But in the stream Of daily sorrow and delight To seek a theme. I too, O
Katherine
We see you as we see a face That trembles in a forest place Upon the mirror of a pool Forever quiet, clear and cool; And in the wayward glass, appears To hover between