Robert Louis Stevenson

(1850-1894 / Edinburgh / Scotland)

Robert Louis Stevenson Poems

201. Time To Rise 1/3/2003
202. To Alison Cunningham, From Her Boy 3/30/2010
203. To All That Love The Far And Blue 12/31/2002
204. To Any Reader 1/3/2003
205. To Auntie 1/3/2003
206. To Charles Baxter 12/31/2002
207. To Friends At Home 12/31/2002
208. To Madame Garschine 12/31/2002
209. To Marcus 12/31/2002
210. To Mesdames Zassetsky And Garschine 12/31/2002
211. To Minnie 1/3/2003
212. To Miss Cornish 12/31/2002
213. To Mrs. Macmarland 12/31/2002
214. To Mrs. Will. H. Low. 3/26/2015
215. To My Mother 1/3/2003
216. To My Name-Child 1/3/2003
217. To N. V. De G. S. 3/30/2010
218. To Ottilie 12/31/2002
219. To Rosabelle 12/31/2002
220. To Sydney 12/31/2002
221. To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights 12/31/2002
222. To The Muse 1/3/2003
223. To What Shall I Compare Her? 12/31/2002
224. To Will H. Low 3/30/2010
225. To Willie And Henrietta 1/3/2003
226. Travel 1/3/2003
227. Underwoods: Epigram 1/29/2015
228. Variant Form Of The Preceding Poem 12/31/2002
229. Voluntary 12/31/2002
230. Wedding Prayer 2/3/2015
231. What Man May Learn, What Man May Do 12/31/2002
232. When The Sun Come After Rain 12/31/2002
233. Where Go The Boats? 1/3/2003
234. Whole Duty Of Children 1/3/2003
235. Windy Nights 1/3/2003
236. Winter-Time 1/3/2003
237. You Looked So Tempting In The Pew 12/31/2002
238. Young Night-Thought 1/3/2003
239. Youth And Love 3/30/2010
Best Poem of Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer Sun

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look ...

Read the full of Summer Sun

In Lupum

BEYOND the gates thou gav'st a field to till;
I have a larger on my window-sill.
A farm, d'ye say? Is this a farm to you,
Where for all woods I spay one tuft of rue,
And that so rusty, and so small a thing,
One shrill cicada hides it with a wing;
Where one cucumber covers all the plain;
And where one serpent rings himself in vain
To enter wholly; and a single snail

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