<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=124565" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Eride, V</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now in the palace gardens warm with age, <br>On lawn and flower-bed this afternoon <br>The thin November-coloured foliage <br>Just as last year unfastens lilting down, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And round the terrace in gray attitude <br>The very statues are becoming sere <br>With long presentiment of solitude. <br>Most of the life that I have lived is here, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here by the path and autumn's earthy grass <br>And chestnuts standing down the breadths of sky <br>Indeed I know not how it came to pass, <br>The life I lived here so unhappily. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet blessing over all! I do not care <br>What wormwood I have ate to cups of gall; <br>I care not what despairs are buried there <br>Under the ground, no, I care not at all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nay, if the heart have beaten, let it break! <br>I have not loved and lived but only this <br>Betwixt my birth and grave. Dear Spirit, take <br>The gratitude that pains, so deep it is. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Spring shall be again, and at your door <br>You stand to feel the mellow evening wind. <br>Remember if you will my heart is pure, <br>Perfectly pure and altogether kind; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">That not an aftercry of all our strife <br>Troubles the love I give you and the faith: <br>Say to yourself that at the ends of life <br>My arms are open to you, life and death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How much it aches to linger in these things! <br>I thought the perfect end of love was peace <br>Over the long-forgiven sufferings. <br>But something else, I know not what it is, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The words that came so nearly and then not, <br>The vanity, the error of the whole, <br>The strong cross-purpose, oh, I know not what <br>Cries dreadfully in the distracted soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The evening fills the garden, hardly red; <br>And autumn goes away, like one alone. <br>Would I were with the leaves that thread by thread <br>Soften to soil, I would that I were one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Trumbull+Stickney">Trumbull Stickney</a> from <i>Dramatic Verses</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=124565" data-title="Eride, V de Trumbull Stickney" data-description="Now in the palace gardens warm with age, /On lawn and flower-bed this afternoon /The thin November-coloured foliage /Just as last year unfastens lilting down, /And round the terrace in gray attitude /The very statues are becoming sere /With long p..."></div> </div> </div>

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