Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

THE summer sun shone round me,
The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.

The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
"The winter comes apace." 

1. I Know Not How, But As I Count
2. Requiem
3. Late, O Miller
4. Ad Martialem
5. At Last She Comes

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