written by Robert Louis StevensonFrom Child's Garden of Verses
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Robert Louis Stevenson
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Tue 09.07.2010 at 09:20
THE wind may blaw the lee-gang way
And aye the lift be mirk an' gray,
An deep the moss and steigh the brae
Where a' maun gang -
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Sun 09.05.2010 at 19:46
MY love was warm; for that I crossed
The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavour lost
That gave my love to me.
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Sat 09.04.2010 at 08:38
IF you see this song, my dear,
And last year's toast,
I'm confoundedly in fear
You'll be serious and severe
About the boast.
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Sat 09.04.2010 at 04:33
HERE in the quiet eve
My thankful eyes receive
The quiet light.
I see the trees stand fair
Against the faded air,
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Sat 09.04.2010 at 00:25
Children, you are very little,
And your bones are very brittle;
If you would grow great and stately,
written by Robert Louis Stevenson, published on Tue 08.31.2010 at 15:03
The sun is not a-bed, when I
At night upon my pillow lie;
Still round the earth his way he takes,