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				Title:     The Little Land 
			    
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson [
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When at home alone I sit
 And am very tired of it,
 I have just to shut my eyes
 To go sailing through the skies--
 To go sailing far away
 To the pleasant Land of Play;
 To the fairy land afar
 Where the Little People are;
 Where the clover-tops are trees,
 And the rain-pools are the seas,
 And the leaves, like little ships,
 Sail about on tiny trips;
 And above the Daisy tree
 Through the grasses,
 High o'erhead the Bumble Bee
 Hums and passes.
 In that forest to and fro
 I can wander, I can go;
 See the spider and the fly,
 And the ants go marching by,
 Carrying parcels with their feet
 Down the green and grassy street.
 I can in the sorrel sit
 Where the ladybird alit.
 I can climb the jointed grass
 And on high
 See the greater swallows pass
 In the sky,
 And the round sun rolling by
 Heeding no such things as I.
 Through that forest I can pass
 Till, as in a looking-glass,
 Humming fly and daisy tree
 And my tiny self I see,
 Painted very clear and neat
 On the rain-pool at my feet.
 Should a leaflet come to land
 Drifting near to where I stand,
 Straight I'll board that tiny boat
 Round the rain-pool sea to float.
 Little thoughtful creatures sit
 On the grassy coasts of it;
 Little things with lovely eyes
 See me sailing with surprise.
 Some are clad in armour green--
 (These have sure to battle been!)--
 Some are pied with ev'ry hue,
 Black and crimson, gold and blue;
 Some have wings and swift are gone;--
 But they all look kindly on.
 When my eyes I once again
 Open, and see all things plain:
 High bare walls, great bare floor;
 Great big knobs on drawer and door;
 Great big people perched on chairs,
 Stitching tucks and mending tears,
 Each a hill that I could climb,
 And talking nonsense all the time--
 O dear me,
 That I could be
 A sailor on a the rain-pool sea,
 A climber in the clover tree,
 And just come back a sleepy-head,
 Late at night to go to bed.
[The end]
Robert Louis Stevenson's poem: The Little Land
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