| The Land of Story-Books |
| Robert Louis Stevenson |
|
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. |
|
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. |
|
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. |
|
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. |
|
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. |
|
So when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books. |
 |
|