I, WHOM Apollo sometime visited,
Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done,
Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all
The weariness of changes; nor perceive
Immeasurable sands of centuries
Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound
Of generations beat the music down.
More verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
- Hail! Childish Slave Of Social Rules
- Variant Form Of The Preceding Poem
- In The States
- My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings
- In The Highlands