At seven, when I go to bed,
I find such pictures in my head:
Castles with dragons prowling round,
Gardens where magic fruits are found;
We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.
When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup,
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out
Through the blinds and the windows and bars;
And high overhead and all moving about,
There were thousands of millions of stars.
Up into the cherry tree
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad on foreign lands.
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
Summer; fading, winter comes-
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing,
Three of us aboard in the basket on the lea.
Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring,
And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.
A Robert Louis Stevenson Poem.
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
Read more about The Land of Story-Books …
The sun is not a-bed, when I
At night upon my pillow lie;
Still round the earth his way he takes,
And morning after morning makes.
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high…
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;