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Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: 'Here he lies where he longed to be; Here is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.' |
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Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches,; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; And there is the green for stringing the daisies! Here is a cart run away in the road Lumping along with man and load; And here is a mill, and there is a river Each a glimpse and gone forever! Robert Louis Stevenson |
