Robert Louis Stevenson

Still I Love to Rhyme

STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander
Far from the commoner way;
Old—time trills and falls by the brook—side still do I ponder,
Dreaming to—morrow to—day.
 
Come here, come, revive me, Sun—God, teach me, Apollo,
Measures descanted before;
Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow,
Prints in the marbles of yore.
 
Still strange, strange, they sound in old—young raiment invested,
Songs for the brain to forget —
Young song—birds elate to grave old temples benested
Piping and chirruping yet.
 
Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter
Trammelled so vilely in verse;
He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter,
Won with a groan and a curse.
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