[A Memory of Robert Louis Stevenson]


When long ago he wandered here,
    Heart-hungered, sick and poor,
No roof was been to shelter him
    No welcome at the door.

In all the streets of Monterey,
    With sun and shine aflame,
No word was passed that there might know
    The Prince of Dreamers came.

There sped no song to meet him
    From lute or lifted lyre,
When here the Master Singer passed
    To seek his Heart's Desire.

No hand was raised to help him,
    No lips with cheer to greet,
Till worn with fast and weariness
    He fainted at their feet.

Then one there was who lifted up
    The fever-tortured head,
And took him to his pitying heart,
    And gave him drink and bread—

Gave him a shelter and a bed,
    Nor asked his name to know—
And of all the men of Monterey
    It is to him I'll go.

It is to this old, kindly man
    That I will go today,
The thanks of all the grateful world
    And my poor thanks to say.

Let from the shores the wild waves break
    In mist and white sprays flung,
Let from the ancient Mission tower
    The Angelus be sung;

Let all the tales they tell be told,
    But just one tale for me—
And 'tis of him who sleeps afar
    Beyond that sun-kissed sea;

Whose dreams I know, whose songs I sing,
    Though dead he lies and still—
"The sailor who is home from sea,
    The hunter from the hill."