CategoryRobert Louis Stevenson

ABOUT the sheltered garden groundThe trees stand strangely still.The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,Nor yet so high the hill. An awful sense of quietness,A fulness of repose,Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,The silent garden rows. As the hoof-beats of a troop of horseHeard far across a plain,A nearer knowledge of great thoughtsThrills vaguely through my brain. I lean my head upon my...