Excerpt
POEMS BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AUTUMN FIRES
In the other gardens And all up the vale,From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers;The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all!Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!
THE UNSEEN PLAYMATEWhen children are playing alone on the green,In comes the playmate that never was seen.When children are happy and lonely and good,The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.
Nobody heard him and nobody saw,His is a picture you never could draw,But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,When children are happy and playing alone.
He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!
He loves to be little, he hates to be big,'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tinThat sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.
'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!
THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKSAt 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 crawlAll in the dark along the wall,And follow round the forest trackAway behind the sofa back.
There in the night, where none can spy,All in my hunter's camp I lie,And play at books that I have read,Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,These are my starry solitudes,And there the river by whose brinkThe roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away,As if in firelit camp they lay,And I, like to an Indian scout,Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,Home I return across the sea,And go to bed with backward looksAt my dear Land of Story-books.
THE WINDI saw you toss the kites on highAnd blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,Like ladies' skirts across the grass— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,But always you yourself you hid.I felt you push, I heard you call,I could not see yourself at all— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,O blower, are you young or old?Are you a beast of field and tree,Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
WINTER-TIMELate lies the wintry sun a-bed,A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;Blinks but an hour or two; and then,A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,At morning in the dark I rise;And shivering in my nakedness,By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sitTo warm my frozen bones a bit;Or, with a reindeer-sled, exploreThe colder countries round the door....