whole soul a while in simple ease;
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.

TO MRS. SITWELL

The special mood or occasion of unaccustomed bitterness which
prompted this rhapsody has passed from memory beyond recall. The date
must be after his return from his second excursion to Fontainebleau.

_[Swanston, late Summer 1875] Thursday._

I have been staying in town, and could not write a word. It is a fine
strong night, full of wind; the trees are all crying out in the
darkness; funny to think of the birds asleep outside, on the tossing
branches, the little bright eyes closed, the brave wings folded, the
little hearts that beat so hard and thick (so much harder and thicker
than ever human heart) all stilled and quieted in deep slumber, in the
midst of this noise and turmoil. Why, it will be as much as I can do to
sleep in here in my walled room; so loud and jolly the wind sounds
through the open window. The unknown places of the night invite the
travelling fancy; I like to think of the sleeping towns and sleeping
farm-houses and cottages, all the world over, here by the white road
poplar-lined, there by the clamorous surf. Isn't that a good dormitive?

_Saturday._--I cannot tell how I feel, who can ever? I feel like a
person in a novel of George Sand's; I feel I desire to go out of the
house, and begin life anew in the cool blue night; never to come back
here; never, never. Only to go on for ever by sunny day and grey day, by
bright night and foul, by high-way and by-way, town and hamlet, until
somewhere by a road-side or in some clean inn clean death opened his
arms to me and took me to his quiet heart for ever. If soon, good; if
late, well then, late--there would be many a long bright mile behind me,
many a goodly, many a serious sight; I should die ripe and perfect, and
take my garnered experience with me into the cool, sweet earth. For I
have died already and survived a death; I