Because good poetry should never be kept to oneself

To Will. H. Low.

Youth now flees on feathered foot.
Faint and fainter sounds the flute,
Rarer songs of gods; and still
Somewhere on the sunny hill,
Or along the winding stream,
Through the willows, flits a dream;
Flits, but shows a smiling face,
Flees, but with so quaint a grace,
None can choose to stay at home,
All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she
Now in air floats high and free,
Takes the sun and breaks the blue; --
Late with stooping pinion flew
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet
Her wing in silver streams, and set
Shining foot on temple roof:
Now again she flies aloof,
Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't
By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane,
Still we pant and pound in vain;
Still with leaden foot we chace
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still with grey hair we stumble on,
Till, behold, the vision gone!
Where hath fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.
Life is over, life was gay:
We have come the primrose way.
-Robert Louis Stevenson


Nothing much to add to this, but a resounding Wow! and one extra thought of mine; there are, in the whole of literature, very few pieces that evoke feelings from me as strongly as music does. This is one of those pieces.

And Ms. Cannon, if you ever read this, I finally did read Treasure Island, and it was fantastic. Although it is odd to think that the same man who wrote this also made these lines famous;

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

Go figure.