Page:The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Vailima Edition, Volume 8, 1922.djvu/494

NEW POEMS Eleven English parsons, all

Entirely inoffensive; four

True human beings—what I call

Human—the deuce a cipher more;

A climate of surprising worth;

Innumerable dogs that bark;

Some air, some weather, and some earth;

A native race—God save the mark!—

A race that works, yet cannot work,

Yodels, but cannot yodel right,

Such as, unhelp'd, with rusty dirk,

I vow that I could wholly smite.

A river that from morn to night

Down all the valley plays the fool;

Not once she pauses in her flight,

Nor knows the comfort of a pool;

But still keeps up, by straight or bend,

The self-same pace she hath begun—

Still hurry, hurry, to the end—

Good God, is that the way to run?

If I a river were, I hope

That I should better realise

The opportunities and scope

Of that romantic enterprise.

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