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120              STEVENSON'S POEMS
May bring of joy or sorrow, who can tell ? O, knowing not, who cares ?    It may be well That we shall find old pleasures and old fears, And our remembered childhood seen thro' tears, The best of Heaven and the worst of Hell.
As starts the absent dreamer when a train, Suddenly disengulphed below his feet, Roars forth Into the sunlight, to its seat My soul was shaken with immediate pain Intolerable as the scanty breath Of that one word blew utterly away The fragile mist of fair deceit that lay O'er the bleak years that severed me from death. Yes, at the sight I quailed; but, not unwise Or not, O God, without some nervous thread Of that best valour, Patience, bowed my head, And with firm bosom and most steadfast eyes, Strong in all high resolve, prepared to tread The unlovely path that leads me toward the skies.
Not undelightful, friend, our rustic ease To grateful hearts ; for by especial hap, Deep nested in the hill's enormous lap, With its own ring of walls and grove of trees,