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A collection of poetry by Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson.

Page 340 of 454
Table of Contents

Lo, Now, My Guest

Lo, now, my guest, if aught amiss were said, Forgive it and dismiss it from your head. For me, for you, for all, to close the date, Pass now the ev’ning sponge across the slate; And to that spirit of forgiveness keep Which is the parent and the child of sleep.

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