Take a moment midway through life to look back—and forward—with Robert Louis Stevenson.
At the Sea-side
When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup,
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.
Requiem
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Reading these two quiet, lyrical poems by Robert Louis Stevenson side by side, we have the chance to reflect on the past and the future—to compare our earliest moments and whatever expectations we may have of our very last. How will our departure vary from our origins?
In "At the Sea-side" we enter the world of childhood at its most innocent. A child wanders down the beach and "they"—his parents no doubt—hand him a spade to complete the sweet perfection of sun, sea and sand. Cue much fun, absorbed, pointless digging of holes.
Why do children love to burrow pits—and build castles destined to fall? Perhaps it has something to do with their freshly minted zeal for exploring the three dimensions they find themselves in: the difference between up and down, left and right. Stevenson evokes that first magical wonder we felt in bending nature to our will and waiting for its reaction. How amazing to forge a space—a cup brimming with receptive promise—and watch it fill and spill over.
As the sea sweeps in and the boy witnesses the steady erosion of his efforts, he learns that while he has the power to shape his environment he has none to control it. With his child's wisdom he displays no upset, only captivated acceptance of precisely what happens. Yet in that dynamic of creation and destruction we may feel an intimation of future struggles to create permanence where none exists. We may even have a premonition of a funeral scene.
As the saying goes, time and tide wait for no man. In "Requiem" we fast-forward to the end of Stevenson's life. Day has turned to night. Once more a hole is being dug under the open sky. But this is a grave, in which he purposefully lies down, knowing he has nothing to regret. This is a cup too: the peaceful death we would wish to win, like a trophy, as we finish our race against the clock.
Looking up, we see the studs of silver stars glinting from their dark interstellar heaven. The mood is grand. Heroic. With suave supernatural aplomb, a spectral Stevenson instructs the gravedigger to place his body in the ground, and recites the epitaph to be engraved on his tombstone. Oddly enough, his words came true. When he died, the concluding two lines were written on his sarcophagus at the summit of Vaca Mountain on the Island of Samoa.
Looking down at the inscription, we sink into an almost hypnotic wave of calm. The word "home" repeats three times like a charm—or a bell tolling. Our hearty lust for adventure and survival—as symbolized by the sailor and hunter—beats still. The aspirate "h" sound in "here," "hunter" and "hill" makes us hear Stevenson's breath as it slips away, but which he resurrects in verse.
Softly reciting the words of these two poems to ourselves, listening to their whispers on our tongue and letting them echo in our mind, we begin to notice the subtle points of connection between a snapshot of an infant holiday and a vision of abiding rest. Rather than depressing us, the effect is surprisingly uplifting, even sublime.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 – 1894) was a Scottish poet, novelist and essayist. He traveled widely, visiting America and the South Pacific, seeking respite from his chronic ill-health. He is famous for such classics as "Treasure Island" and 'The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde."
Christopher Nield is a poet and freelance writer living in London.