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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359110" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lines To My Father</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The many sow, but only the chosen reap; <br>Happy the wretched host if Day be brief, <br>That with the cool oblivion of sleep <br>A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout <br>One meagre blossom for our hands to cull, <br>Accustomed indigence provokes a shout <br>Of praise that life becomes so bountiful. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now ushered regally into your own, <br>Look where you will, as far as eye can see, <br>Your little seeds are to a fullness grown, <br>And golden fruit is ripe on every tree. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage <br>Without travail, to which weak wills aspire; <br>This is a merited and grief-earned wage <br>From One Who holds His servants worth their hire. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So has the shyest of your dreams come true, <br>Built not of sand, but of the solid rock, <br>Impregnable to all that may accrue <br>Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Countee+Cullen">Countee Cullen</a><div class=q>
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<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=359110" data-title="Lines To My Father de Countee Cullen" data-description="The many sow, but only the chosen reap; 
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief, 
That with the cool oblivion of sleep 
A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief. 

If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout 
One meagre blossom for our hands..."></div>
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