Robert Louis Stevenson Poems

  • 201.  
    AS one who having wandered all night long
    In a perplexed forest, comes at lengthIn the first hours, about the matin song,
  • 202.  
    THE relic taken, what avails the shrine?
    The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine,Art thou not worse than that,
  • 203.  
    As in the hostel by the bridge I sate,
    Nailed with indifference fondly deemed complete,And (O strange chance, more sorrowful than sweet)
  • 204.  
    AWAY with funeral music - set
    The pipe to powerful lips -The cup of life's for him that drinks
  • 205.  
    I AM like one that for long days had sate,
    With seaward eyes set keen against the gale,On some lone foreland, watching sail by sail,
  • 206.  
    THOU strainest through the mountain fern,
    A most exiguously thin Burn.For all thy foam, for all thy din,
  • 207.  
    WHEN loud by landside streamlets gush,
    And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,With sun on the meadows
  • 208.  
    SOON our friends perish,
    Soon all we cherishFades as days darken - goes as flowers go.
  • 209.  
    THIS gloomy northern day,
    Or this yet gloomier night,Has moved a something high
  • 210.  
    AS swallows turning backward
    When half-way o'er the sea,At one word's trumpet summons
  • 211.  
    O CHIEF director of the growing race,
    Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace,Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive
  • 212.  
    Dark brown is the river,
    Golden is the sand.It flows along for ever,
  • 213.  
    How do you like to go up in a swing,
    Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
  • 214.  
    THE air was full of sun and birds,
    The fresh air sparkled clearly.Remembrance wakened in my heart
  • 215.  
    The sun is not a-bed, when I
    At night upon my pillow lie; Still round the earth his way he takes,
  • 216.  
    THE angler rose, he took his rod,
    He kneeled and made his prayers to God.The living God sat overhead:
  • 217.  
    Even in the bluest noonday of July,
    There could not run the smallest breath of windBut all the quarter sounded like a wood;
  • 218.  
    I should like to rise and go
    Where the golden apples grow;-- Where below another sky
  • 219.  
    I have a hoard of treasure in my breast;
    The grange of memory steams against the door,Full of my bygone lifetime's garnered store -
  • 220.  
    MAN sails the deep awhile;
    Loud runs the roaring tide;The seas are wild and wide;
  • 221.  
    HERE in the quiet eve
    My thankful eyes receiveThe quiet light.
  • 222.  
    Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
    A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
  • 223.  
    I saw you toss the kites on high
    And blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,
  • 224.  
    When children are playing alone on the green,
    In comes the playmate that never was seen.When children are happy and lonely and good,
  • 225.  
    At evening when the lamp is lit,
    Around the fire my parents sit.They sit at home, and talk and sing,
  • 226.  
    I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
    Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.I will make a palace fit for you and me,
  • 227.  
    Under the wide and starry sky
    Dig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,
  • 228.  
    Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing,
    Three of us aboard in the basket on the lea.Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring,
  • 229.  
    In the highlands, in the country places,
    Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens
  • 230.  
    In the other gardens
    And all up the vale,From the autumn bonfires
  • 231.  
    The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
    The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
Total 231 poems written by Robert Louis Stevenson

Poem of the day

Dusk In War Time
 by Sara Teasdale

A half-hour more and you will lean
To gather me close in the old sweet way-
But oh, to the woman over the sea
Who will come at the close of day?

A half-hour more and I will hear
The key in the latch and the strong, quick tread-
But oh, the woman over the sea
...

Read complete poem

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