At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.
- by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894), "The Land of Story-Books", appears in A Child's Garden of Verses, first published 1885 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Homer Newton Bartlett (1845 - 1920), "The Land of Story-Books", published 1897 [voice and piano], from the collection The Stevenson Song-Book [text not verified]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2008-12-07
Line count: 24
Word count: 161