At evening when the lamp is lit, <br />Around the fire my parents sit; <br />They sit at home and talk and sing, <br />And do not play at anything. <br /> <br />Now, with my little gun, I crawl <br />All in the dark along the wall, <br />And follow round the forest track <br />Away behind the sofa back. <br /> <br />There, in the night, where none can spy, <br />All in my hunter's camp I lie, <br />And play at books that I have read <br />Till it is time to go to bed. <br /> <br />These are the hills, these are the woods, <br />These are my starry solitudes; <br />And there the river by whose brink <br />The roaring lions come to drink. <br /> <br />I see the others far away <br />As if in firelit camp they lay, <br />And I, like to an Indian scout, <br />Around their party prowled about. <br /> <br />So when my nurse comes in for me, <br />Home I return across the sea, <br />And go to bed with backward looks <br />At my dear land of Story-books.<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-land-of-story-books/
