Epigram for Underwoods. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox .org. Underwoods by Robert Louis Stevenson. Epigram. Of all my verse, like not a single line. But like my title, for it is not mine. That title from a better man I stole. Ah, how much better had I stolen the whole? End of epigram. Envoy by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox .org by Alan Mapstone. Go little book and wish to all flowers in the garden meet in the hall. A bin of wine, a spice of wit. A house with lawns enclosing it. A living river by the door. A nightingale in the sycamore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Song of the Road by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox .org by Alan Mapstone. The gauger walked with willing foot, and I the gauger played the flute. And what should master gauger play but over the hills and far away? Whene 'er I buckle on my pack and foot it gaily in the track. O pleasant gauger, long since dead, I hear you fluting on ahead. You go with me the selfsame way, the selfsame air for me you play. For I do think, and so do you, it is the tune to travel to. For who would gravely set his face to go to this or t 'other place? There's nothing under heaven so blue that's fairly worth the travelling to. On every hand the roads begin, and people walk with zeal therein. But whereso 'er the highways tend, be sure there's nothing at the end. Then follow you wherever high, the travelling mountains of the sky. Or let the streams in civil mode direct your choice upon a road. For one and all, or high or low, will lead you where you wish to go. And one and all go night and day, over the hills and far away. Forest of Montagas, 1878 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Canoe Speaks by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibriVox .org by Alan Mapstone On the great streams the ships may go, about men's business to and fro. But I, the eggshell -pinnace, sleep on crystal waters ankle -deep. I, whose diminutive design, of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, Is fashioned on so frail a mould, a hand may launch, a hand withhold. I rather, with the leaping trout, wind among lilies in and out. I, the unnamed inviolate, green rustic rivers, navigate. My dipping paddle scarcely shakes, the berry in the bramble breaks. Still forth on my green way I wend, beside the cottage garden end. And by the nested angler fair, and take the lovers unaware. By willow wood and water -wheel, speedily fleets my touching keel. By all retired and shady spots, where prosper dim forget -me -nots. By meadows where at afternoon the growing maidens troop in June,