Robert Louis Stevenson - poems - Poem Hunter

[Pages:285]Classic Poetry Series

Robert Louis Stevenson - poems -

Publication Date: 2004

Publisher: - The World's Poetry Archive

Robert Louis Stevenson(1850-1894)

Robert Louis Stevenson was born November 13, 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland, the only son of respectable middle-class parents. Throughout his childhood, he suffered chronic health problems that confined him to bed. The strongest influence during his childhood was that of his nurse, Allison Cunnigham, who often read aloud Pilgrim's Progress and The Old Testament, his most direct literary influences during this time. In 1867, he entered Edinburgh University as a science student, where it was tacitly understood that he would follow his father's footsteps and become a civil engineer. Robert, however, had much more of a romantic nature at heart and while obstentiously working for a science degree, he spent much of his time studying French Literature, Scottish history, and the works of Darwin and Spencer. When he confided to his father that he did not want to become an engineer and instead wished to pursue writing, his father was naturally upset. They settled on a compromise ? Robert would study for the Bar and if is literary ambitions failed, he would have a respectable profession to fall back on.

In order to fully understand the world in which Stevenson was raised, it is necessary to understand that there were two Edinburghs, both which played a part in molding his personality and outlook. On one hand was New Town, respectable, conventional, deeply religious, and polite. On the other was a much more bohemian Edinburgh, symbolized by brothels and shadiness. The juxtaposition of the two aspects in contrast to each other made a deep impression and strengthened his fascination with the duality of human nature, later providing the theme for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

In the autumn of 1873, Stevenson was taken ill with nervous exhaustion and a severe chest condition, consequently, his doctor ordered him to take an extended rest abroad. For the next six months, he convalesced in the South of France, working on essays. On his return to Edinburgh, he spent much of his time writing book reviews and articles and experimenting with short stories. Slowly but surely, he earned a name for himself in journalism and his pieces began appearing in distinguished journals such as The Fortnightly Review. At this time, he met an American married woman, Fanny Vandergrift Osbourne, ten years his senior, whom was in Europe trying to escape her estranged husband's influence. For three years, Stevenson (still in ill health) continued his relationship with her and eventually followed her to San Francisco, where she obtained a divorce from her husband and married Stevenson in May 1880.

During this time, he published his first book, An Inland Voyage in 1878, an

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engaging account of a canoeing holiday in Belgium. In August 1880, the Stevensons returned to England. The story of Stevenson life from this point forward is a story centered on a search of a climate where he could live without the fears of his failing health. He and his wife wintered in the South of France and lived in England from 1880-1887, and this time was marked by an active period of literary achievement. His first novel, Treasure Island, was published in 1883, followed by The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) and Kidnapped (1886). For the first time in his life, Stevenson had became a popular author.

Upon the death of his father in 1887, Robert Louis Stevenson decided to leave England and sailed for America, where he stayed for a year. In May 1888, accompanied by his wife, his step-son, and his mother, he set sails for the South Seas. Eventually, Stevenson was so enchanted by the life of the South Seas that in December 1889 he bought an estate in Apia, Samoa, convinced that he could never endure the harsh winters of his native Scotland or England. Apia was a perfect location because the climate was tropical but not wild, the people were friendly and hard working, and it possessed a good postal service. He lived at his 300 acre estate, Vailima, in the hills of Apia until his death five years later. The list of his writings for 1890-94 reveals an impressive range of activities. During this time, he completed two of his finest novellas, ?The Beach of Falesa' and The Ebb Tide, two novels, The Wrecker and Catriona, the short stories ?The Bottle Imp,' ?The Isle of voices' and ?the Waif Woman,' and the short pieces collected under the title of Fables. He also worked on a number of novels that he did not live to complete, including St. Ives, The Young Chevalier and Heathercat. He worked with enthusiasm on Weir of Hermiston until the day of his death, December 3, 1894. On that day, he dictated another installment of the novel, seemed in excellent spirits, and was talking to his wife in the evening when he felt a violent pain in his head and almost immediately lost consciousness. He died of a cerebral hemmorauge a few hours later at the age of forty-four.

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A Child's Garden Of Verses

For the long nights you lay awake And watched for my unworthy sake: For your most comfortable hand That led me through the uneven land: For all the story-books you read: For all the pains you comforted:

For all you pitied, all you bore, In sad and happy days of yore:My second Mother, my first Wife, The angel of my infant lifeFrom the sick child, now well and old, Take, nurse, the little book you hold!

And grant it, Heaven, that all who read May find as dear a nurse at need, And every child who lists my rhyme, In the bright, fireside, nursery clime, May hear it in as kind a voice As made my childish days rejoice!

Robert Louis Stevenson

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A Good Boy

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day, I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise, No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn, And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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A Good Play

We built a ship upon the stairs All made of the back-bedroom chairs, And filled it full of soft pillows To go a-sailing on the billows.

We took a saw and several nails, And water in the nursery pails; And Tom said, "Let us also take An apple and a slice of cake;"-Which was enough for Tom and me To go a-sailing on, till tea.

We sailed along for days and days, And had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, So there was no one left but me.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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A Thought

It is very nice to think The world is full of meat and drink, With little children saying grace In every Christian kind of place.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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A Valentine's Song

MOTLEY I count the only wear That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise, Who boldly smile upon despair And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy's eyes. Singers should sing with such a goodly cheer That the bare listening should make strong like wine, At this unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

We do not now parade our "oughts" And "shoulds" and motives and beliefs in God. Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts Must keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad, Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased; But in the public streets, in wind or sun, Keep open, at the annual feast, The puppet-booth of fun.

Our powers, perhaps, are small to please, But even negro-songs and castanettes, Old jokes and hackneyed repartees Are more than the parade of vain regrets. Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the wounded deer We shall make merry, honest friends of mine, At this unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

I know how, day by weary day, Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade. I have not trudged in vain that way On which life's daylight darkens, shade by shade. And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased, Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one, Keep open, at the annual feast, The puppet-booth of fun.

I care not if the wit be poor, The old worn motley stained with rain and tears, If but the courage still endure

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