Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/45

 XI

TO WILL. H. LOW

now flees on feathered foot,

Faint and fainter sounds the flute,

Rarer songs of gods; and still

Somewhere on the sunny hill,

Or along the winding stream,

Through the willows, flits a dream;

Flits but shows a smiling face,

Flees but with so quaint a grace,

None can choose to stay at home,

All must follow, all must roam.