New Poems, and Variant Readings. Robert Louis Stevenson

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СКАЧАТЬ That lies awake in bed to watch

       The trees and great white moon.

      For memories of love are more

       Than the white moon there above,

       And dearer than quiet moonshine

       Are the thoughts of her I love.

III.

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      Last night I lingered long without

       My last of loves to see.

       Alas! the moon-white window-panes

       Stared blindly back on me.

      To-day I hold her very hand,

       Her very waist embrace—

       Like clouds across a pool, I read

       Her thoughts upon her face.

      And yet, as now, through her clear eyes

       I seek the inner shrine—

       I stoop to read her virgin heart

       In doubt if it be mine—

      O looking long and fondly thus,

       What vision should I see?

       No vision, but my own white face

       That grins and mimics me.

IV.

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      Once more upon the same old seat

       In the same sunshiny weather,

       The elm-trees’ shadows at their feet

       And foliage move together.

      The shadows shift upon the grass,

       The dial point creeps on;

       The clear sun shines, the loiterers pass,

       As then they passed and shone.

      But now deep sleep is on my heart,

       Deep sleep and perfect rest.

       Hope’s flutterings now disturb no more

       The quiet of my breast.

ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER

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      As swallows turning backward

       When half-way o’er the sea,

       At one word’s trumpet summons

       They came again to me—

       The hopes I had forgotten

       Came back again to me.

      I know not which to credit,

       O lady of my heart!

       Your eyes that bade me linger,

       Your words that bade us part—

       I know not which to credit,

       My reason or my heart.

      But be my hopes rewarded,

       Or be they but in vain,

       I have dreamed a golden vision,

       I have gathered in the grain—

       I have dreamed a golden vision,

       I have not lived in vain.

      DEDICATION

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      My first gift and my last, to you

       I dedicate this fascicle of songs—

       The only wealth I have:

       Just as they are, to you.

      I speak the truth in soberness, and say

       I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes,

       Had rather hear you praise

       This bosomful of songs

      Than that the whole, hard world with one consent,

       In one continuous chorus of applause

       Poured forth for me and mine

       The homage of ripe praise.

      I write the finis here against my love,

       This is my love’s last epitaph and tomb.

       Here the road forks, and I

       Go my way, far from yours.

THE OLD CHIMÆRAS, OLD RECEIPTS

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      The old Chimæras, old receipts

       For making “happy land,”

       The old political beliefs

       Swam close before my hand.

      The grand old communistic myths

       In a middle state of grace,

       Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell,

       And walking for a space,

      Quite dead, and looking it, and yet

       All eagerness to show

       The Social-Contract forgeries

       By Chatterton—Rousseau—

      A hundred such as these I tried,

       And hundreds after that,

       I fitted Social Theories

       As one would fit a hat!

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