AT evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH ELEGY: 19. TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED by JOHN DONNE THE HABIT OF PERFECTION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE PAUPER'S DRIVE by THOMAS NOEL THE POET'S SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS FROM AN EXCAVATION ON THE WARRIOR RIVER by ESTHER BARRETT ARGO THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: A L'ENTRESOL by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |