Robert Louis Stevenson – The Complete Collection

Chapter 4

Through the grasses ,

High o'erhead the Bumble Bee

Hums and passes.

In that forest to and fro

I can wander, I can go ;

See the spider and the fly,

And the ants go marching by,

Carrying parcels with their feet

Down the green and grassy street.

I can in the sorrel sit

Where the ladybird alit.

I can climb the jointed grass

And on high

See the greater swallows pass

In the sky ,

And the round sun rolling by

Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pass

Till, as in a looking-glass ,

Humming fly and daisy tree

And my tiny self I see,

Painted very clear and neat

On the rain-pool at my feet.

Should a leaflet come to land

Drifting near to where I stand ,

Straight I'll board that tiny boat

Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit

On the grassy coasts of it ;

Little things with lovely eyes

See me sailing with surprise.

Some are clad in armour green--

(These have sure to battle been!)--

Some are pied with ev'ry hue ,

Black and crimson, gold and blue;

Some have wings and swift are gone;--

But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again

Open, and see all things plain:

High bare walls, great bare floor;

Great big knobs on drawer and door;

Great big people perched on chairs,

Stitching tucks and mending tears,

Each a hill that I could climb,

And talking nonsense all the time--

O dear me ,

That I could be

A sailor on a the rain-pool sea,

A climber in the clover tree,

And just come back a sleepy-head,

Late at night to go to bed.

Garden Days

I

Night and Day

When the golden day is done,

Through the closing portal ,

Child and garden, flower and sun,

Vanish all things mortal.

As the building shadows fall

As the rays diminish ,

Under evening's cloak they all

Roll away and vanish.

Garden darkened, daisy shut,

Child in bed, they slumber--

Glow-worm in the hallway rut,

Mice among the lumber.

In the darkness houses shine,

Parents move the candles ;

Till on all the night divine

Turns the bedroom handles.

Till at last the day begins

In the east a-breaking ,

In the hedges and the whins

Sleeping birds a-waking.

In the darkness shapes of things,

Houses, trees and hedges ,

Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings

Beat on window ledges.

These shall wake the yawning maid;

She the door shall open--

Finding dew on garden glade

And the morning broken.

There my garden grows again

Green and rosy painted ,

As at eve behind the pane

From my eyes it fainted.

Just as it was shut away,

Toy-like, in the even,

Here I see it glow with day

Under glowing heaven.

Every path and every plot,

Every blush of roses ,

Every blue forget-me-not

Where the dew reposes,

"Up!" they cry, "the day is come

On the smiling valleys :

We have beat the morning drum;

Playmate, join your allies!"

II

Nest Eggs

Birds all the sunny day

Flutter and quarrel

Here in the arbour -like

Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork

The brown nest is seated ;

Four little blue eggs

The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her

Staring like gabies,

Safe in each egg are the

Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall

Chip, and upspringing

Make all the April woods

Merry with singing.

Younger than we are,

O children, and frailer ,

Soon in the blue air they'll be,

Singer and sailor.

We, so much older,

Taller and stronger ,

We shall look down on the

Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying

With musical speeches

High overhead in the

Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom

And sensible talking ,

We on our feet must go

Plodding and walking.

III

The Flowers

All the names I know from nurse :

Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,

Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,

And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things ,

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,

Tiny trees for tiny dames--

These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs

Shady fairies weave a house ;

Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,

Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees ,

But the fairest woods are these;

Where, if I were not so tall,

I should live for good and all.

IV

Summer Sun

Great is the sun, and wide he goes

Through empty heaven with repose;

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull

To keep the shady parlour cool ,

Yet he will find a c***k or two

To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad

He, through the keyhole, maketh glad ;

And through the broken edge of tiles

Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around

He bares to all the garden ground ,

And sheds a warm and glittering look

Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue ,

Round the bright air with footing true,

To please the child, to paint the rose,

The gardener of the World, he goes.

V

The Dumb Soldier

When the grass was closely mown ,

Walking on the lawn alone,

In the turf a hole I found,

And hid a soldier underground.

Spring and daisies came apace ;

Grasses hide my hiding place;

Grasses run like a green sea

O'er the lawn up to my knee.

Under grass alone he lies ,

Looking up with leaden eyes,

Scarlet coat and pointed gun,

To the stars and to the sun.

When the grass is ripe like grain ,

When the scythe is stoned again,

When the lawn is shaven clear,

Then my hole shall reappear.

I shall find him, never fear,

I shall find my grenadier;

But for all that's gone and come,

I shall find my soldier dumb.

He has lived, a little thing ,

In the grassy woods of spring;

Done, if he could tell me true,

Just as I should like to do.

He has seen the starry hours

And the springing of the flowers ;

And the fairy things that pass

In the forests of the grass.

In the silence he has heard

Talking bee and ladybird ,

And the butterfly has flown

O'er him as he lay alone.

Not a word will he disclose ,

Not a word of all he knows.

I must lay him on the shelf ,

And make up the tale myself.

VI

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!

VII

The Gardener

The gardener does not love to talk.

He makes me keep the gravel walk ;

And when he puts his tools away,

He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row ,

Where no one else but cook may go,

Far in the plots, I see him dig,

Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue ,

Nor wishes to be spoken to.

He digs the flowers and cuts the hay ,

And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,

And winter comes with pinching toes,

When in the garden bare and brown

You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays ,

To profit by these garden days

O how much wiser you would be

To play at Indian wars with me!

VIII

Historical Associations

Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground

That now you smoke your pipe around ,

Has seen immortal actions done

And valiant battles lost and won.

Here we had best on tip-toe tread ,

While I for safety march ahead,

For this is that enchanted ground

Where all who loiter slumber sound.

Here is the sea, here is the sand ,

Here is simple Shepherd's Land,

Here are the fairy hollyhocks,

And there are Ali Baba's rocks.

But yonder, see! apart and high,

Frozen Siberia lies; where I,

With Robert Bruce and William Tell,

Was bound by an enchanter's spell.

ENVOYS

I

To Willie and Henrietta

If two may read aright

These rhymes of old delight

And house and garden play ,

You two, my cousins, and you only, may.

You in a garden green

With me were king and queen ,

Were hunter, soldier, tar,

And all the thousand things that children are.

Now in the elders' seat

We rest with quiet feet ,

And from the window-bay

We watch the children, our successors, play.

"Time was," the golden head

Irrevocably said ;

But time which one can bind,

While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

II

To My Mother

You too, my mother, read my rhymes

For love of unforgotten times ,

And you may chance to hear once more

The little feet along the floor.

III

To Auntie

"Chief of our aunts"--not only I ,

But all your dozen of nurselings cry--

"What did the other children do?

And what were childhood , wanting you?"

IV

To Minnie

The red room with the giant bed

Where none but elders laid their head;

The little room where you and I

Did for awhile together lie

And, simple suitor, I your hand

In decent marriage did demand;

The great day nursery, best of all,

With pictures pasted on the wall

And leaves upon the blind--

A pleasant room wherein to wake

And hear the leafy garden shake

And rustle in the wind--

And pleasant there to lie in bed

And see the pictures overhead--

The wars about Sebastopol,

The grinning guns along the wall,

The daring escalade,

The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,

The happy children ankle-deep

And laughing as they wade:

All these are vanished clean away,

And the old manse is changed to-day;

It wears an altered face

And shields a stranger race.

The river, on from mill to mill ,

Flows past our childhood's garden still;

But ah! we children never more

Shall watch it from the water-door!

Below the yew--it still is there--

Our phantom voices haunt the air

As we were still at play ,

And I can hear them call and say:

"How far is it to Babylon?"

Ah, far enough, my dear ,

Far, far enough from here--

Yet you have farther gone!

"Can I get there by candlelight?"

So goes the old refrain.

I do not know--perchance you might--

But only, children, hear it right ,

Ah, never to return again!

The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt ,

Shall break on hill and plain,

And put all stars and candles out

Ere we be young again.

To you in distant India, these

I send across the seas ,

Nor count it far across.

For which of us forgets

The Indian cabinets,

The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,

The pied and painted birds and beans,

The junks and bangles, beads and screens,

The gods and sacred bells,

And the loud-humming, twisted shells!

The level of the parlour floor

Was honest, homely, Scottish shore ;

But when we climbed upon a chair,

Behold the gorgeous East was there!

Be this a fable; and behold

Me in the parlour as of old ,

And Minnie just above me set

In the quaint Indian cabinet!

Smiling and kind, you grace a shelf

Too high for me to reach myself.

Reach down a hand, my dear, and take

These rhymes for old acquaintance' sake!

V

To My Name-Child

1

Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed, Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.

Then you shall discover, that your name was printed down

By the English printers, long before, in London town.