Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER, by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Repeated grain should fill the reaper's grange
Last Line: Toward the south.
Alternate Author Name(s): Stevenson, Robert Lewis Balfour
Subject(s): Friendship


Repeated grain should fill the reaper's grange,
My fate for thine I would not change.
Thy pathway would to me be strange,
And strange to thee
The limits of the daily range
That pleases me.

For me, I do but ask such grace
As Icarus. Bright breathing space --
One glorious moment -- face to face,
The sun and he!
The next, fit grave for all his race,
The splendid sea.

The father, rich in forty years
Of poor experience culled in tears,
Meanly restrained by sordid fears
Went limping home
And hung his pinions by the spears,
No more to roam.

O more to me a thousand fold
The son's brief triumph, wisely bold
To separate from the common fold,
The general curse,
The accustomed way of growing old
And growing worse.

O happy lot! A heart of fire,
In the full flush of young desire,
Not custom-taught to shun the mire
And hold the wall,
His sole experience to aspire,
To soar and fall.

His golden hap it was to go
Straight from the best of life below
To life above. Not his to know,
O greatly blest,
How deadly weary life can grow
To e'en the best.

Sad life, whose highest lore, in vain
The nobler summits to attain,
Still bids me draw the kindly strain
Of love more tight,
And ease my individual pain
In your delight.

For I, that would be blythe and merry,
Prefer to call Marsala sherry,
When duty-bound to cross the ferry
Believe it smooth,
And under pleasant fictions bury
Distasteful truth.

And hence I banish wisdom, set
The sole imperial coronet
On cheerful Folly, at regret
Pull many a mouth,
Drown care in jovial bouts -- and yet
Sigh for the South!

O South, South, South! O happy land!
Thou beckon'st me with phantom hand.
Sweet Memories at my bedside stand
All night in tears.
The roar upon thy nightly strand
Yet fills mine ears.

The young grass sparkles in the breeze,
The pleasant sunshine warms my knees,
The buds are thick upon the trees,
The clouds float high.
We sit out here in perfect ease --
My pipe and I.

Fain would I be, where (winter done)
By dusty roads and noontide sun,
The soldiers, straggling one by one,
Marched disarrayed
And spoiled the hedge, till every gun
A Rose displayed.

Or, O flower-land, I would be where
(The trivial, well-beloved affair!)
The bird-watch drew with gentle care
From up his sleeve
And gave me, fluttering from the snare,
A Mange-Olive.

Aye, dear to me the slightest tie
That binds my heart to thee, O high
And sovereign land for whom I sigh
In pain to see
The Springtime come again, and I
So far from thee!

But hush! the clear-throat blackbird sings
From haugh and hill the Season brings
Great armfuls of delightful things
To stop my mouth
Though still (caged-bird) I beat my wings
Toward the South.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net