Explore "To Mrs. will. H. Low" by Robert Louis Stevenson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
EVEN in the bluest noonday of July, / There could not run the smallest breath of wind / But all the quarter sounded like a wood; / And in the chequered silence and above / The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, / Suburban ashes shivered into song.
A patter and a chatter and a chirp / And a long dying hiss-it was as though / Starched old brocaded dames through all the house / Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky / Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.
Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks / Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash / Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long / In these inconstant latitudes delay, / O not too late from the unbeloved north / Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof / Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes / Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms, / Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.