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Robert Louis Stevenson - To Will H. Low
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  Youth now flees on feathered foot
  Faint and fainter sounds the flute,
  Rarer songs of gods; and still
  Somewhere on the sunny hill,
  Or along the winding stream,
  Through the willows, flits a dream;
  Flits but shows a smiling face,
  Flees but with so quaint a grace,
  None can choose to stay at home,
  All must follow, all must roam.

  This is unborn beauty: she
  Now in air floats high and free,
  Takes the sun and breaks the blue;--
  Late with stooping pinion flew

  Raking hedgerow trees, and wet
  Her wing in silver streams, and set
  Shining foot on temple roof:
  Now again she flies aloof,
  Coasting mountain clouds and kiss`t
  By the evening`s amethyst.

  In wet wood and miry lane,
  Still we pant and pound in vain;
  Still with leaden foot we chase
  Waning pinion, fainting face;
  Still with gray hair we stumble on,
  Till, behold, the vision gone!
  Where hath fleeting beauty led?
  To the doorway of the dead.
  Life is over, life was gay:
  We have come the primrose way.
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