The book of poetry
which my Mom gave me for my 8th birthday still inspires me over 50
years later. No matter where I have lived, this book has always been with me.
Some of my favorite poems from my childhood rest between its covers, and from
time to time I post one here. Today is one of those times.
I’ve been having a
rough time of it lately for various reasons, and it amazes me at the comfort I
can still derive form this old and battered book of children’s poetry. Perhaps
I am just immature, or maybe the book is so much a part of who I am, that it is
always able to make me smile.
So, without further delay, or comment on my part, here is “My Shadow”; both literally, and figuratively .
“My Shadow” by
Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very
slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber
ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him
at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me; he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks
to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
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