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.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

ALADDIN

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for cold,

I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded with roofs of gold
My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night,
I have money and power good store,
But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright
For the one that is mine no more.

THE merry, merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea, And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow