STEVENSON
In the Highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies.O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted;And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarred!O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath;Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only the winds and rivers,Life and death.Robert Louis Stevenson.
In the Highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies.O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted;And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarred!O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath;Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only the winds and rivers,Life and death.Robert Louis Stevenson.
In the Highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted;And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath;Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only the winds and rivers,Life and death.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all!Robert Louis Stevenson.
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all!Robert Louis Stevenson.
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all!
Robert Louis Stevenson.