Poem of the Day

For some reason I’m nostalgic for A Child’s Garden of Verses.

Winter-Time
By Robert Louis Stevenson

Late 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 sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.

Today’s selection was partly inspired by an inquiry from a friend and partly because two other friends visited with their adorable baby boy tonight. Ah, my lost youth!

My Bed is a Boat
By Robert Louis Stevenson

My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark;
She girds me in my sailor’s coat
And starts me in the dark.

At night I go on board and say
Good-night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away
And see and hear no more.

And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.

All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.

I just finished reading Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All by Allan Gurganus, and it took me a long time (due to lengthiness, not lack of interest). Throughout the book, the main character refers to and quotes poems from RLS’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, which was a staple for me while I was growing up (my mother has a beautifully illustrated edition). This poem was included at the end. I will admit that I don’t remember it from my childhood.

The Dumb Soldier
By Robert Louis Stevenson

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 hid 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.

Poor tragic RLS…

Requiem
By Robert Louis Stevenson

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 long’d to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
   And the hunter home from the hill.

A couple items of business:

1) I was confined to my bed yesterday and regrettably couldn’t work up the energy to post a poem. I’m still sick, but not feverish or headachy any longer, thank heavens.

2) I listened to The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As such, I was inspired to find a poem by RLS, which was also fueled a bit by nostalgia for my childhood and A Child’s Garden of Verses. Imagine my delight at finding this recording of the following poem.

My Shadow
By Robert Louis Stevenson

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 gets 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 beside 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.

I still have one bookcase full of books at my parents’ house. I found my copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses and was seized by a fit of nostalgia. (I memorized this poem when I was a little girl because I loved to swing.)

The Swing
By Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,
   Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
   Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
   Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
   Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green,
   Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
   Up in the air and down!

In honor of my dearest darling roommate getting back to Austin, I thought I’d post a poem suggested by her. Also, I wish I was still asleep.

The Land of Counterpane
By Robert Louis Stevenson

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

My mother read this (among many other poems) to me when I was a little girl. I’m posting it today in honor of the pirate RenFest and my darling godson Killian!

Pirate Story
By Robert Louis Stevenson

Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing,
   Three of us abroad in the basket on the lea.
Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring,
   And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.

Where shall we adventure, to-day that we’re afloat,
   Wary of the weather and steering by a star?
Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat,
   To Providence, or Babylon or off to Malabar?

Hi! but here’s a squadron a-rowing on the sea—
   Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar!
Quick, and we’ll escape them, they’re as mad as they can be,
   The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore.