86 STEVENSON'S POEMS Believe me, granny, altogether Yours, though perhaps to your surprise. Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, Oft brought a light into my eyes— For notice still the writer cries. In any civil age or nation, The book that is not talked of dies. So that shall be my termination: Whether in praise or execration, Still, if you love me, criticise! FAREWELL FAREWELL, and when forth I through the Golden Gates to Golden Isles Steer without smiling, through the sea of smil Isle upon isle, in the seas of the south, Isle upon island, sea upon sea, Why should I sail, why should the breeze ? I have been young, and I have counted friend; A hopeless sail I spread, too late, too la'te. Why should I from isle to isle Sail, a hopeless sailor ?