 | Robert Louis Stevenson: Collected Poems |  |
341
XI
To A. G. Dew-Smith
In return for a box of cigarettes
Figure me to yourself, I pray—
A man of my peculiar cut—
Apart from dancing and deray,
Into an Alpine valley shut:
A man of my peculiar cut—
Apart from dancing and deray,
Into an Alpine valley shut:
Shut in a kind of damned Hotel
Discountenanced by God and man:
The food?—Sir, you would do as well
To cram your belly full of bran!
Discountenanced by God and man:
The food?—Sir, you would do as well
To cram your belly full of bran!
The company?—Alas, the day,
That I should dwell with such a crew
With devil anything to say
Nor any one to say it to!
That I should dwell with such a crew
With devil anything to say
Nor any one to say it to!
The place?—Although they call it Platz,
I will be bold and state my view:
It's not a place at all—and that's
The bottom verity, my Dew.
I will be bold and state my view:
It's not a place at all—and that's
The bottom verity, my Dew.
There are, as I will not deny,
Innumerable inns; a road;
Several Alps indifferent high,
The snow's inviolable abode;
Innumerable inns; a road;
Several Alps indifferent high,
The snow's inviolable abode;
Eleven English parsons, all
Entirely inoffensive; four
True human beings—what I call
Human—the deuce a cipher more;
Entirely inoffensive; four
True human beings—what I call
Human—the deuce a cipher more;
342
A climate of surprising worth;
Innumerable dogs that bark;
Some air, some weather, and some earth;
A native race—God save the mark!
Innumerable dogs that bark;
Some air, some weather, and some earth;
A native race—God save the mark!
A race that works yet cannot work,
Yodels but cannot yodel right,
Such as, unhelpt, with rusty dirk,
I vow that I could wholly smite;
Yodels but cannot yodel right,
Such as, unhelpt, with rusty dirk,
I vow that I could wholly smite;
A river that from morn to night
Down all the valley plays the fool;
Nor once she pauses in her flight;
Nor knows the comforts of a pool.
Down all the valley plays the fool;
Nor once she pauses in her flight;
Nor knows the comforts of a pool.
But still keeps up, by straight or bend,
The self-same pace that she begun—
Still hurry, hurry, to the end—
Good God, is that the way to run?
The self-same pace that she begun—
Still hurry, hurry, to the end—
Good God, is that the way to run?
If I a river were, I hope
That I should better realise
The opportunities and scope
Of that romantic enterprise.
That I should better realise
The opportunities and scope
Of that romantic enterprise.
I should not ape the merely strange,
But aim besides at the divine;
And continuity and change
I still should labour to combine.
But aim besides at the divine;
And continuity and change
I still should labour to combine.
Here should I gallop down the race,
Here charge the sterling like a bull;
There, as a man might wipe his face,
Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.
Here charge the sterling like a bull;
There, as a man might wipe his face,
Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.
343
But what, my Dew, in idle mood,
What prate I, minding not my debt?
What do I talk of bad or good?
The best is still a cigarette.
What prate I, minding not my debt?
What do I talk of bad or good?
The best is still a cigarette.
Me, whether evil fate assault,
Or smiling providences crown—
Whether on high the eternal vault
Be blue, or crash with thunder down—
Or smiling providences crown—
Whether on high the eternal vault
Be blue, or crash with thunder down—
I judge the best, whate'er befal,
Is still to sit on one's behind
And, having duly moistened all,
Smoke with an unperturbèd mind.
Is still to sit on one's behind
And, having duly moistened all,
Smoke with an unperturbèd mind.
So sitting, so engaged, I write;
So puffing, so puffed up, I sing,
In modest climates of delight
And from the islands of the spring:
So puffing, so puffed up, I sing,
In modest climates of delight
And from the islands of the spring:
My manner, even as I can:
My matter—Frenchly—to agree
As from a much delighted man,
A gift unspeakable to me.
My matter—Frenchly—to agree
As from a much delighted man,
A gift unspeakable to me.
| Robert Louis Stevenson: Collected Poems | |