The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/From Wishing-land
IX
FROM WISHING-LAND
DEAR Lady, tapping at your door,
Some little verses stand,
And beg on this auspicious day
To come and kiss your hand.
Their syllables all counted right
Their rhymes each in its place,
Like birthday children, at the door
They wait to see your face.
Rise, lady, rise and let them in;
Fresh from the fairy shore,
They bring you things you wish to have,
Each in its pinafore.
For they have been to Wishing-land
This morning in the dew,
And all your dearest wishes bring—
All granted—home to you.
What these may be, they would not tell,
And could not if they would;
They take the packets sealed to you
As trusty servants should.
But there was one that looked like love,
And one that smelt like health,
And one that had a jingling sound—
I fancy it might be wealth.
Ah, well, they are but wishes still;
But, lady dear, for you
I know that all you wish is kind,
I pray it all come true.