November 13
Today is the birthday of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Where Go the Boats
by Robert Louis Stevenson
Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.
Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating—
Where will all come home?
On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.
Long Live Robert L. S.
Thank you for the poem and also a reminder; I must read The Master of Ballantrae and Weir of Hermiston which I picked up the other day. Caught my eye at a second hand book shop.
Great writer, such a fascinating man - I'm off to the beach!
Happy belated birthday to Stevenson! I apologize for my being late; I have, however, always proved as a big fan. And thank you for sharing the poem, annareads.
I am glad you both enjoyed it!
I've been getting into Stevenson a lot lately; he quickly became one of my favorite poets. Here's one I read and enjoyed today. I was going to post it in "What's the last poem you read?" but realized it'd probably go better in a thread of his poetry.
The Dumb Soldier, by R.L. 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.
I just came across this; most beautiful poem I may have ever read.
"Flower God, God of the Spring..."
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poet...of_spring.html
Reading it while listening to Early Morning by Edgar Meyer was a pretty lucky experience
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