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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374033" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>From The Portuguese</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I lived in the village of youth<br>There were lilies in all the orchards,<br>Flowers in the orange-gardens<br>For brides to wear in their hair.<br>It was always sunshine and summer,<br>Roses at every lattice,<br>Dreams in the eyes of maidens,<br>Love in the eyes of men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I lived in the village of youth<br>The doors, all the doors, stood open;<br>We went in and out of them laughing,<br>Laughing and calling each other<br>To shew each other our fairings,<br>The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br>The new rose, the new lover.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now I live in the town of age<br>Where are no orchards, no gardens.<br>Here, too, all the doors stand open,<br>But no one goes in or goes out.<br>We sit alone by the hearthstone<br>Where memories lie like ashes<br>Upon a hearth that is cold;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And they from the village of youth<br>Run by our doorsteps laughing,<br>Calling, to shew each other<br>The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br>The new rose, the new lover.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once we had all these things -<br>We kept them from the old people,<br>And now the young people have them<br>And will not shew them to us -<br>To us who are old and have nothing<br>But the white, still, heaped-up ashes<br>On the hearth where the fire went out<br>A very long time ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I had a mistress; I loved her.<br>She left me with memories bitter,<br>Corroding, eating my heart<br>As the acid eats into the steel<br>Etching the portrait triumphant.<br>Intolerable, indelible,<br>Never to be effaced.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A wife was mine to my heart,<br>Beautiful flower of my garden,<br>Lily I worshipped by day,<br>Scented rose of my nights.<br>Now the night wind sighing<br>Blows white rose petals only<br>Over the bed where she sleeps<br>Dreamless alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I had a son; I loved him.<br>Mother of God, bear witness<br>How all my manhood loved him<br>As thy womanhood loved thy Son!<br>When he was grown to his manhood<br>He crucified my heart,<br>And even as it hung bleeding<br>He laughed with his bold companions,<br>Mocked and turned away<br>With laughter into the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Those three I loved and lost;<br>But there was one who loved me<br>With all the fire of her heart.<br>Mine was the sacred altar<br>Where she burnt her life for my worship.<br>She was my slave, my servant;<br>Mine all she had, all she was,<br>All she could suffer, could be.<br>That was the love of my life,<br>I did not say, 'She loves me';<br>I was so used to her love<br>I never asked its name,<br>Till, feeling the wind blow cold<br>Where all the doors were left open,<br>And seeing a fireless hearth<br>And the garden deserted and weed-grown<br>That once was full of flowers for me,<br>I said, 'What has changed? What is it<br>That has made all the clocks stop?'<br>Thus I asked and they answered:<br>'It is thy mother who is dead.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now I am alone.<br>My son, too, some day will stand<br>Here, where I stand and weep.<br>He too will weep, knowing too late<br>The love that wrapped round his life.<br>Dear God spare him this:<br>Let him never know how I loved him,<br>For he was always weak.<br>He could not endure as I can.<br>Mother, my dear, ask God<br>To grant me this, for my son!</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=374033" data-title="From The Portuguese de Edith Nesbit" data-description="I

When I lived in the village of youth
There were lilies in all the orchards,
Flowers in the orange-gardens
For brides to wear in their hair.
It was always sunshine and summer,
Roses at every lattice,
Dreams in the eyes of maidens,
Love in the ey..."></div>
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