There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;
Far have you come, my lady, from the town.


NOUS N'IRONS PLUS AU BOIS.


We'll walk the woods no more,
But stay beside the fire,
To weep for old desire
And things that are no more.

The woods are spoiled and hoar,
The ways are full of mire;
We'll walk the woods no more,
But stay beside the fire.
We loved, in days of yore,
Love, laughter, and the lyre.
Ah God, but death is dire,
And death is at the door -
We'll walk the woods no more.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.



Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN