Robert Louis Stevenson.
I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine
I will make a palace fit for you and me,
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright
blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside
BRAVE lads in olden musical centuries
Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,
Sat late by
alehouse doors in April
Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising.
Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,
Flush-faced they playd with old polysyllables
scents inspired, old wine diluted:
Love and Apollo were there to chorus.
Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,
Those, only those, the bountiful choristers
are gone, those unrememberd
Sleep and are silent in earth for ever.
So man himself appears and evanishes,
So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at
green-embowerd house, play their music,
Play and are gone on the windy highway.
Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory
Long after they departed eternally,
towrd far mountain summits,
Cities of men or the sounding Ocean.
Youth sang the song in years immemorial:
Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;
haunted green tree-tops in springtime
Heard, and were pleased by the voice of singing.
Youth goes and leaves behind him a prodigy
Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian
grey lagunes, sea-paven highways,
Dear to me here in my Alpine exile.
IN the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
young fair maidens
Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses
more lovely music
Broods and dies
O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
low green meadows
Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come,
and planets glinted,
Lo, the valley hollow
O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
trance of silence,
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement
sounds and passes;
Only winds and rivers,
Life and death.
GO, little book, and wish to all
Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,
A bin of wine, a spice
A house with lawns enclosing it,
A living river by the door,
A nightingale in the sycamore.
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