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If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed

Scarce seem'd a vision,-I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee-tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind.
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

The Little Land

Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Stevenson was born in Edinburgh in 1850. He was educated to be an engineer like his forefathers, but gave up at the age of twenty-one to study law. This was, however, less to his taste than engineering, and he toiled incessantly at his study of literature. His first book, An Inland Voyage, appeared in 1878. He fell in love with Mrs. Fanny Osbourne who later nursed him back to health during his illness in San Francisco. They were married and spent much of their time traveling about Europe and America for his health. Stevenson's last years were spent in Samoa where he did some of his best literary work. "Treasure Island" brought him immediate recognition. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" and "Kidnapped" also added to his fame. "Virginibus Puerisque" is one of his volumes of essays. He is also popular for his children's poetry, in the well-known volume, A Child's Garden of Verse. Stevenson died in 1894 and was buried on top of a mountain overlooking his home in Samoa.

This is pure childish fancy. Do not, however, make it too "babyish" in delivery. Retain dignity, but show the spirit of childhood. Bring out the rhyme scheme well, but preserve a proper proportion between the thought and the music.

WHEN at home I sit

And am very tired of it,

I have just to shut my eyes
To go sailing through the skies—
To go sailing far away
To the pleasant Land of Play;
To the fairy land afar
Where the Little People are;
Where the clover-tops are trees,
And the rain-pools are the seas,
And the leaves like little ships
Sail about on tiny trips;
And above the daisy tree
Through the grasses,

High o'erhead the Bumblebee
Hums and passes.

In that forest to and fro
I can wander, I can go;
See the spider and the fly,
And the ants go marching by
Carrying parcels with their feet
Down the green and grassy street.
I can in the sorrel sit

Where the ladybird alit.

I can climb the jointed grass;
And on high

See the water swallows pass
In the sky

And the round sun rolling by
Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pass
Till, as in a looking-glass,
Humming fly and daisy tree
And my tiny self I see,
Painted very clear and neat
On the rain-pool at my feet.
Should a leaflet come to land
Drifting near to where I stand,
Straight I'll board that tiny boat
Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit
On the grassy coasts of it;
Little things with lovely eyes

See me sailing with surprise.
Some are clad in armor green—
(These have sure to battle been!-)
Some are pied with every hue,
Black and crimson, gold and blue;
Some have wings and swift are gone ;—
But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again
Open, and see all things plain:
High bare walls, great bare floor;
Great big knobs on drawer and door;
Great big people perched on chairs,
Stitching tucks and mending tears,
Each a hill that I could climb,
And talking nonsense all the time-
O dear me,

That I could be

A sailor on the rain-pool sea,

A climber in the clover tree,
And just come back, a sleepy-head,

Late at night to go to bed.

Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.

Little Boy Blue

Eugene Field

Eugene Field was born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1850, and died in Chicago in 1895. He was probably the most popular writer of children's verse in America. He wrote his verses in the midst of a busy life as a journalist.

"Little Boy Blue" is justly counted as one of the masterpieces of verse dealing with children. It is, however, more revelatory of a father's or mother's feelings for the child than of the feelings of the child itself. The tone is that of supreme affection. At times the voice is almost choked with sobs. There are "tears in the voice" all the way through. Vividly place yourself in the father's or mother's place and you cannot but succeed.

THE little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys.

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue-
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,

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