By Robert Louis Stevenson
Here's a vintage, illustrated variation of 1 of the simplest enjoyed poetry collections on the earth. Lavishly illustrated with greater than a hundred photos via the main wonderful kid's publication artists of the past due 19th and early 20th centuries, this variation of A kid's backyard of Verses comprises all of the poems that seemed within the unique booklet, released over a hundred years in the past. it is a quantity to be loved for a life-time: through mom and dad and by way of grandparents who grew up with the poems and, such a lot of all, through kids who're being brought to this awesome assortment for the 1st time.
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Additional resources for A Child's Garden of Verses : A Classic Illustrated edition
The odor of barber shops makes me weep aloud. I just w ant a rest from stones or wool, I just want not to see establishments or gardens or elevators, or merchandise, or eyeglasses. It happens that I’m tired of m y feet and m y nails and m y hair and m y shadow. It happens that I’m tired of being a man. Still it would be delightful to frighten a notary w ith a cut lily or give death to a nun w ith a blow on the ear. It would be beautiful to go through the streets w ith a green knife shouting away until frozen to death.
Still it would be delightful to frighten a notary w ith a cut lily or give death to a nun w ith a blow on the ear. It would be beautiful to go through the streets w ith a green knife shouting away until frozen to death. I don’ t w ant to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, spread out, shivering w ith sleep, downward, into the w et bowels of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating every day. I don’t want so many cares upon m y head. I don’t want to go on being root and tomb, alone underground, a vault w ith dead men, numb w ith coid, perishing of anguish.
Z6 Corpses asleep which often dance clinging to the weight o f m y heart, w hat opaque cities we tour! M y dark shadowy steed grows tall as a giant, and over ancient gambling houses, over pimping trafficking on wornout stairs, over the beds o f naked girls, among football players, we pass girding the wind: and then into our mouth fall those soft fruits o f the sky, birds, the tolling o f convent bells, kites; he who nourished himself on puré geography and quivering probably saw us flash by. Comrades whose heads repose on barréis in a dismantled fugitive ship, far away, tearless friends o f mine, women o f cruel countenance: midnight arrives, and death’s gong strikes around me like the sea.
A Child's Garden of Verses : A Classic Illustrated edition by Robert Louis Stevenson