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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373989" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At The Feast</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">EVOLVING, changing, onwards still we press-- <br>We must advance, invent, construct, possess; <br>No matter what a price we have to pay, <br>We must obtain perfection, and no less-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Perfection in our luxuries, the hours, <br>Fulfilled of sweetness, must be slaves of ours; <br>Our air be rich with music and soft light, <br>And all our halls be odorous with flowers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>How our least want may best be satisfied, <br>How not a pleasure may be left untried; <br>How to appease each longing and desire, <br>This we have learned, and something else beside. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Yes, we have learned to know, and not to shrink <br>From knowing, to what depths our brothers sink; <br>And we have learned the lesson 'not to feel,' <br>And we have learned the lesson 'not to think.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We must have learned it; otherwise, to-night, <br>When, sped by wine and feasting, time takes flight, <br>When perfect music searches for our soul, <br>And all these flowers unfold for our delight, </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We should not hear the music, but, instead, <br>Hear that wild, bitter, heart-sick cry for bread, <br>And in the lamps that light our lavish feast, <br>Should see but tapers burning for the dead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We should not see the myriad blossoms waste, <br>The bloom of them would be thrust back, displaced <br>By the white faces of the starving children-- <br>Wasted and wan, who might have been flower-faced. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh, not to think! To think and not to care! <br>Oh, woman hearts, still do these flowers seem fair? <br>Can music drown the little piteous voices? <br>Can you not see the little faces there? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>For 'faring sumptuously every day,' <br>For raiment soft and music on our way, <br>We give--the tortured lives of little children: <br>For such a purchase, what a price to pay!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edith+Nesbit">Edith Nesbit</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=373989" data-title="At The Feast de Edith Nesbit" data-description="EVOLVING, changing, onwards still we press-- 
We must advance, invent, construct, possess; 
No matter what a price we have to pay, 
We must obtain perfection, and no less-- 


Perfection in our luxuries, the hours, 
Fulfilled of sweetness, must be..."></div>
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