On this day in
1850, one of our greatest writers, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born at 8 Howard
Place, Edinburgh. The address still
exists and, if you’re a RLS-groupie, like me, you can walk down the street
and gaze in wonder at the house!
Today, up in his
home-city, there are all kinds of events happening to celebrate what would have
been his 167th birthday.
Regrettably I can’t be there, so I thought I’d have my own little
celebration here on my blog.
Stevenson is most
famous for his children’s books, Treasure Island and Kidnapped. But he wrote much more than that. He was also a poet, an essayist, and a
travel-writer. Regular readers of this
blog will already know that I followed in his footsteps through the Cévennes in
a series of posts last year, supplemented with photos of the places I visited
as they are now.
Today, in honour of
his birth, I wanted to introduce you to a couple of my favourite pieces of poetry from his book 'A Child's Garden of Verses'. First published 1895, my copy was printed in 1934 and originally
belonged to my dad, who was also a browser in second-hand bookshops!
The Gardener
The gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep to the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
Where no-one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red and
blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! Summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days,
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
At the very end of the book is a little
known piece, that I have always loved, addressed...
To Any Reader
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That
lingers in the garden there.
RLS wrote one of my favourite poems:
ReplyDeleteUnder 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,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."
When I was about four someone gave me his Child's Garden of Verse, which I loved. Still got it somewhere! And he was a cousin of D.E.Stevenson who wrote women's romantic novels from around 1930-late sixties.
Hi Nicola and thanks for visiting. Good to see I'm not the only RLS groupie! I love your favourite little verse too. And do find that book, it so deserves to be on a bookshelf!
ReplyDeleteWrong poet but raising my glass to The Immortal Memory. I loved A Child's Garden of Verse too and wanted to share the Lamplighter but kept getting horrible things about Gaslighting - yuk!
ReplyDeleteWith you and RSL and Travels (donkey called Cigarette, better light one) And raise a glass to you all for remembering xxx
Hi Ailsa and thanks for visiting. Hope you enjoyed the wine. I'm guessing the 'wrong poet' is Burns, another great writer, one that I should read more frequently. I'll get round to that eventually and thanks for reminding me.
Delete