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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360610" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>London To Folkestone (Half-Past One To Half-Past Five)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A constant keeping-past of shaken trees, <br>And a bewildered glitter of loose road; <br>Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop <br>Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain— <br>That seem to draw the clouds along with them <br>(Things which one stoops against the light to see <br>Through the low window; shaking by at rest, <br>Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows); <br>And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, <br>Trees that in moving keep their intervals <br>Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times <br>Long reaches of green level, where one cow, <br>Feeding among her fellows that feed on, <br>Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. <br>There are six of us: I that write away; <br>Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl <br>And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair <br>Standing out limp. A grazier at one end <br>(Thank luck not my end!) has blocked out the air, <br>And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt. <br>The poor young muff who's face to face with me <br>Is pitiful in loose collar and black tie, <br>His latchet-button shaking as we go. <br>There are flowers by me, half upon my knees, <br>Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt: <br>The wind that beats among us carries off <br>Their scent, but still I have them for my eye. <br>Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops <br>Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky <br>Still with clear trees that let you see the wind; <br>And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits <br>Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where <br>Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day. <br>Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once <br>That for the suddenness I cannot know <br>Or what, or where begun, or where at end. <br>Sometimes a Station in grey quiet; whence, <br>With a short gathered champing of pent sound, <br>We are let out upon the air again. <br>Now nearly darkness; knees and arms and sides <br>Feel the least touch, and close about the face <br>A wind of noise that is along like God. <br>Pauses of water soon, at intervals, <br>That has the sky in it;—the reflexes <br>O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, <br>Leaving the water's surface plain. I now <br>Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they <br>Smart from the open forwardness of thought <br>Fronting the wind—— <br>——I did not scribble more, <br>Be certain, after this; but yawned, and read, <br>And nearly dozed a little, I believe; <br>Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, <br>I was roused altogether, and looked out <br>To where, upon the desolate verge of light, <br>Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dante+Gabriel+Rossetti">Dante Gabriel Rossetti</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=360610" data-title="London To Folkestone (Half-Past One To Half-Past Five) de Dante Gabriel Rossetti" data-description="A constant keeping-past of shaken trees, 
And a bewildered glitter of loose road; 
Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop 
Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain— 
That seem to draw the clouds along with them 
(Things which one..."></div>
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