You Ever Feel Like This?

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow–
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he’s a coward you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the Sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

My Shadow, by Robert Louis Stevenson
(Courtesy of Ex Bootneck)

4 thoughts on “You Ever Feel Like This?

  1. I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
    And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
    He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
    And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

    The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow–
    Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
    For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
    And he sometimes goes so little that there’s none of him at all.

    He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
    And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
    He stays so close behind me, he’s a coward you can see;
    I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

    One morning, very early, before the Sun was up,
    I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
    But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
    Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

    A poem from my childhood…
    My Shadow, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

    Yours Aye.

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