STEVENSON'S POEMS
There with these
You shall give ear to breaking seas And windmills turning in the breeze, A distant undetermined din Without; and you shall hear within The blazing and the bickering logs, The crowing child, the yawning dogs, And ever agile, high and low, Our Nelly going to and fro.
There shall you all silent sit,
Till, when perchance the lamp is lit
And the day's labour done, she takes
Poor Otto down, and, warming for our sakes3
Perchance beholds, alive and near,
Our distant faces reappear.
MY LOVE WAS WARM
MY love was warm; for that I crossed The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavour lost That gave my love to me.
If that indeed were love at all,
As still, my love, I trow, By what dear name am I to call
The bond that holds me now ?