Happy poems

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The Land of Counterpane

© Robert Louis Stevenson

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

The Hayloft

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew shoulder-high,
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
And cut it down to dry.

Picture-Books in Winter

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.

In Port

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Last, to the chamber where I lie
My fearful footsteps patter nigh,
And come out from the cold and gloom
Into my warm and cheerful room.

Happy Thought

© Robert Louis Stevenson

The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Good and Bad Children

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Children, you are very little,
And your bones are very brittle;
If you would grow great and stately,
You must try to walk sedately.

Flower God, God Of The Spring

© Robert Louis Stevenson

FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my

Fear Not, Dear Friend, But Freely Live Your Days

© Robert Louis Stevenson

FEAR not, dear friend, but freely live your days
Though lesser lives should suffer. Such am I,
A lesser life, that what is his of sky
Gladly would give for you, and what of praise.

Block City

© Robert Louis Stevenson

What are you able to build with your blocks?
Castles and palaces, temples and docks.
Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,
But I can be happy and building at home.

Air Of Diabelli's

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Still in the river see the shallop floats.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
Still in the mind
Hark to the song of the past!
Dream, and they pass in their dreams.

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good. My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,

To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew

© John Dryden

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the Blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Alexander's Feast; Or, The Power Of Music

© John Dryden

Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder

Ode

© John Dryden

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
That well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies!
Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent;

The Medal

© John Dryden

Thus inborn broils the factions would engage,
Or wars of exiled heirs, or foreign rage,
Till halting vengeance overtook our age,
And our wild labours, wearied into rest,
Reclined us on a rightful monarch's breast.

Absalom And Achitophel

© John Dryden

Him staggering so when Hell's dire agent found,
While fainting virtue scarce maintain'd her ground,
He pours fresh forces in, and thus replies:

Hidden Flame

© John Dryden

Feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.