Robert Louis Stevenson

(1850-1894 / Edinburgh / Scotland)

Robert Louis Stevenson Poems

161. System 1/3/2003
162. Tales Of Arabia 12/31/2002
163. Tempest Tossed And Sore Afflicted 12/31/2002
164. The Angler Rose, He Took His Rod 12/31/2002
165. The Bour-Tree Den 12/31/2002
166. The Celestial Surgeon 3/30/2010
167. The Clock's Clear Voice Into The Clearer Air 12/31/2002
168. The Cow 1/3/2003
169. The Dumb Soldier 1/3/2003
170. The Far-Farers 12/31/2002
171. The Feast Of Famine 7/1/2015
172. The Flowers 1/3/2003
173. The Gardener 1/3/2003
174. The Hayloft 1/3/2003
175. The Lamplighter 1/3/2003
176. The Land Of Counterpane 1/3/2003
177. The Land Of Nod 1/3/2003
178. The Land Of Story-Books 1/3/2003
179. The Light Keeper 10/21/2015
180. The Little Land 1/3/2003
181. The Mirror Speaks 4/7/2015
182. The Moon 1/3/2003
183. The Old Chimaeras. Old Recipts 12/31/2002
184. The Piper 12/31/2002
185. The Relic Taken, What Avails The Shrine? 12/31/2002
186. The Sick Child 4/24/2015
187. The Spaewife 3/30/2010
188. The Summer Sun Shone Round Me 12/31/2002
189. The Sun Travels 1/3/2003
190. The Swing 1/3/2003
191. The Unseen Playmate 1/3/2003
192. The Vagabond 1/3/2003
193. The Vanquished Knight 12/31/2002
194. The Wind 1/3/2003
195. The Wind Blew Shrill And Smart 12/31/2002
196. The Wind Is Without There And Howls In The Trees 12/31/2002
197. There Was An Old Man Of The Cape 2/4/2015
198. This Gloomy Northern Day 12/31/2002
199. Thou Strainest Through The Mountain Fern 12/31/2002
200. Though Deep Indifference Should Drowse 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

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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