To Robert Louis Stevenson. Herman Knickerbocker Viele (1856-1908). December 3. James and Mary Ford, eds. 1902. Every Day in the Year: A Poetical Epitome of the World's History

James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.

December 3

To Robert Louis Stevenson

By Herman Knickerbocker Viele (1856–1908)

Robert Louis Stevenson died Dec. 3, 1894.

THERE is naught that is new, saith the Preacher;
Death is old,
Love is cold,
And the hate of the gods for the creature
Waxes dull as the æons unfold.	5

Who shall find a new gem in the shingle,
Tempest driven,
Storm riven,
Where the foams of the centuries mingle
And the seekers of jetsam have striven?	10

He alone of the searchers, he only,
In the rift
Of the drift,
With torn hands, uncompanioned and lonely,
Could the pearls from the nothingness sift.	15

O finder of infinite treasure!
For the spoil
Of thy moil,
Is it grateful, the respite of leisure
That comes with the surcease of toil?	20

At rest are the tireless fingers
Which for us
From the dross
Picked the marvelous beauty that lingers
But to tell us anew of our loss.	25

Sleep well in thy ocean bound island!
Sleep and rest
Clothe thy breast.
Blow gently, thou gale of the Highland,
Sigh softly, thou Wind of the West.	30

Weep low o’er the bier of thy master,
Salt breeze
Of the seas,
With the sound of thy sport or disaster,
Disturb not his limitless ease.	35

God hath granted thy guerdon, my brother,
And the head
Cold and dead,
Bears the mystical crown and none other,
And the bays on thy coffin are spread.	40

And the tears and the prayers of a planet,
That start
From the heart,
Reach over the distance and span it
From us to the land where thou art.	45