Volume Iii Part 77 (1/2)
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.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
IN THE HIGHLANDS
In the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies.--
O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the 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 Lamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath!
Lo! for there, among the flowers and gra.s.ses, Only the mightier movement sounds and pa.s.ses; Only winds and rivers, Life and Death.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too; O wind of the west, we wait for you!
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so, But never a favor you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail and uns.h.i.+p the mast: I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest: O drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep!
By your mountains steep, Or down where the prairie gra.s.ses sweep, Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel, On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead: The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.