"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson

The book of poetry which my Mom gave me for my 8^th 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.

A Very Special Book

This is a very special book. It was given to me by my Mother for my 8th birthday in 1962. She bought it at the Farmers Market on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. In 47 years it has never been far from me.

The book is comprised of 85 Children's poems. "The Walrus and the Carpenter", "Who Has Seen the Wind", "The Animal Store", "The Land of Counterpane", "The Owl and the Pussycat", "Wynken, Blynken and Nod", they are all here.

And inside the front cover there is a little inscription from my Mom that says simply "To Robert." It appears that she never finished writing whatever it was she had planned to write. She was ill a good deal of the time and actually was in the hospital the morning of my birthday. I remember waking up that morning and going to the kitchen for breakfast. My Dad had left early to see her but there was a card and some presents for me on the table. I don't remember what else I got that day- but the book, with it's unfinished inscription from my Mom, was the one which I cherished the most.

I still return to its' pages now and again to read the innocent rhymes and be carried away by their cadence. And sometimes when I hold the book I am 8 years old again- lost in the magic of the poems.