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A collection of poetry by Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson.

Page 293 of 454
Table of Contents

To Ottilie

You remember, I suppose, How the August sun arose, And how his face Woke to trill and carolette All the cages that were set About the place.

In the tender morning light All around lay strange and bright And still and sweet, And the gray doves unafraid Went their morning promenade Along the street.

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