Robert Louis Stevenson

(1850-1894 / Edinburgh / Scotland)

Robert Louis Stevenson Poems

81. I Will Make You Brooches 3/30/2010
82. I, Whom Apollo Somtime Visited 12/31/2002
83. If This Were Faith 1/3/2003
84. In Charidemum 12/31/2002
85. In Lupum 12/31/2002
86. In Maximum 12/31/2002
87. In Port 1/3/2003
88. In The Green And Gallant Spring 12/31/2002
89. In The Highlands 1/4/2003
90. In The States 1/3/2003
91. It Blows A Snowing Gale 12/31/2002
92. It's Forth Across The Roaring Foam 12/31/2002
93. Katherine 1/3/2003
94. Keepsake Mill 1/3/2003
95. Know You The River Near To Grez 12/31/2002
96. Late, O Miller 12/31/2002
97. Let Love Go, If Go She Will 12/31/2002
98. Light As The Linnet On My Way I Start 12/31/2002
99. Lo! In Thine Honest Eyes I Read 12/31/2002
100. Lo, Now, My Guest 12/31/2002
101. Long Time I Lay In Little Ease 12/31/2002
102. Looking Forward 1/3/2003
103. Looking-Glass River 1/3/2003
104. Loud And Low In The Chimney 12/31/2002
105. Love, What Is Love 12/31/2002
106. Love's Vicissitudes 12/31/2002
107. Man Sails The Deep Awhile 12/31/2002
108. Marching Song 1/3/2003
109. Men Are Heaven's Piers 12/31/2002
110. Mine Eyes Were Swift To Know Thee 12/31/2002
111. Music At The Villa Marina 12/31/2002
112. My Bed Is A Boat 1/3/2003
113. My Bed Is A Boat 3/30/2010
114. My Body, Which My Dungeon Is -new- 5/22/2015
115. My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings 3/30/2010
116. My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings 12/31/2002
117. My House, I Say 1/9/2015
118. My Kingdom 1/3/2003
119. My Love Was Warm 12/31/2002
120. My Shadow 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Robert Louis Stevenson

The Swing

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

Read the full of The Swing

To Mrs. Will. H. Low.

Even in the bluest noonday of July,
There could not run the smallest breath of wind
But all the quarter sounded like a wood;
And in the chequered silence and above
The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,
Suburban ashes shivered into song.
A patter and a chatter and a chirp
And a long dying hiss - it was as though
Starched old brocaded dames through all the house

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