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 chink 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.

- Robert Louis Stevenson, Summer Sun

 

 

I found a new poem today, one by Robert Louis Stevenson that I have not read. I have a beloved, splintered volume of A Child's Garden of Verses which was given to me 50 Christmases ago from my Grandmother. Between that book and my Mother's influence, I grew to love poetry. For a very long time I did not realize that there were more poems than contained in my one volume. And, I keep finding them!

Stevenson was born practically an invalid in Edinburgh, Scotland in on November 13, 1850. When his Child's Garden of Verses was published in 1885 he dedicated it to his childhood nanny, Alison Cunningham. The poetic verses were supposedly written while Stevenson was suffering from a spell of illness when living for a brief time in Florence, Italy. 

Stevenson's poems were published in a variety of collected works between 1885 and into the years following his death in 1894.

Swallows Travel To and Fro 

Swallows travel to and fro,
And the great winds come and go,
And the steady breezes blow,
Bearing perfume, bearing love.
Breezes hasten, swallows fly,
Towered clouds forever ply,
And at noonday, you and I
See the same sunshine above.

Dew and rain fall everywhere,
Harvests ripen, flowers are fair,
And the whole round earth is bare
To the moonshine and the sun;
And the live air, fanned with wings,
Bright with breeze and sunshine, brings
Into contact distant things,
And makes all the countries one.

Let us wander where we will,
Something kindred greets us still;
Something seen on vale or hill
Falls familiar on the heart;
So, at scent or sound or sight,
Severed souls by day and night
Tremble with the same delight -
Tremble, half the world apart

The Vagabond


From Songs 

of Travel (1896)





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 in the river -
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field -
Warm the fireside haven -
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above

And the road below me. 


A Visit From the Sea



From Underwoods (1887)




Far from the loud sea beaches
  Where he goes fishing and crying
Here in the inland garden
  Why is the sea-gull flying?

Here are no fish to dive for;
  Here is the corn and lea;
Here are the green trees rustling.
  Hie away home to sea!

Fresh is the river water
  And quiet among the rushes;
This is no home for the sea-gull,
  But for the rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird that has wandered!
  Pity the sailor ashore!
Hurry him home to the ocean,
  Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges
  The white gulls are trooping and crying,
Here among the rooks and roses,
  Why is the sea-gull flying?

Underwoods was dedicated to the numerous doctors that tended to Stevenson during his life life of frequent illness.

Requiem (from Underwoods, 1887)

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I 
live and gladly die,
    And I laid me down with a will.

This be the 
verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Stevenson and his American wife Fanny traveled to all of the European and exotic places that became the settings for his popular fiction. He died while in Somoa, in the South Pacific, and as requested, his tomb stone was engraved with his poem Requiem.

Find these and additional poems by Robert Louis Stevenson at 

www.poetryloverspage.com.