STEVENSON'S POEMS
Than that the whole, hard world with one consent, In one continuous chorus of applause Poured forth for me and mine The homage of ripe praise.
I write the finis here against my love, This is my love's last epitaph and tomb. Here the road forks, and I Go my way, far from yours.
THE OLD CHIMERAS, OLD RECEIPTS
THE old Chimseras, old receipts
For making " happy land," The old political beliefs
Swam close before my hand.
The grand old communistic myths
In a middle state of grace. Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell,
And walking for a space,
Quite dead, and looking it, and yet
All eagerness to show The Social-Contract forgeries
By Chatterton—Rousseau—