 | Robert Louis Stevenson: Collected Poems |  |
XVIII
To Mrs E. F. Strickland
The freedom and the joy of days
When health was with us still,
The pleasure of green woods and ways
And of the breathing hill:
These that so dear a value set
Upon the times of yore,
We may remember, may forget—
We must enjoy no more.
As in strange lands, when exiles meet
And dream of long ago,
They with a nearer kindness greet
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So, all unknown, from far away,
I, lady, turn to you—
Your fellow exile from the day,
The breezes and the dew.
| Robert Louis Stevenson: Collected Poems | |