The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;She shines on thieves on the garden wall,On streets and fields and harbour quays,And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.
You are watching: The moon by robert louis stevenson
The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,The howling dog by the door of the house,The bat that lies in bed at noon,All love to be out by the light of the moon.
But all of the things that belong to the dayCuddle to sleep to be out of her way;And flowers and children close their eyesTill up in the morning the sun shall arise.
From Breakfast on through all the dayAt home among my friends I stay,But every night I go abroadAfar into the land of Nod.All by myself I have to go,With none to tell me what to do–All alone beside the streamsAnd up the mountain-sides of dreams.The strangest things are there for me,Both things to eat and things to see,And many frightening sights abroadTill morning in the land of Nod.Try as I like to find the way,I never can get back by day,Nor can remember plain and clearThe curious music that I hear.
When the grass was closely mown,Walking on the lawn alone,In the turf a hole I found,And hid a soldier underground.Spring and daisies came apace;Grasses hide my hiding place;Grasses run like a green seaO”er the lawn up to my knee.Under grass alone he lies,Looking up with leaden eyes,Scarlet coat and pointed gun,To the stars and to the sun.When the grass is ripe like grain,When the scythe is stoned again,When the lawn is shaven clear,Then my hole shall reappear.I shall find him, never fear,I shall find my grenadier;But for all that”s gone and come,I shall find my soldier dumb.He has lived, a little thing,In the grassy woods of spring;Done, if he could tell me true,Just as I should like to do.He has seen the starry hoursAnd the springing of the flowers;And the fairy things that passIn the forests of the grass.In the silence he has heardTalking bee and ladybird,And the butterfly has flownO”er him as he lay alone.Not a word will he disclose,Not a word of all he knows.I must lay him on the shelf,And make up the tale myself.
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.