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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381251" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Glory</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The glory of the beauty of the morning, -<br>The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; <br>The blackbird that has found it, and the dove<br>That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; <br>White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; <br>The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy<br>Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -<br>The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning<br>All I can ever do, all I can be, <br>Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, <br>The happiness I fancy fit to dwell<br>In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day<br>Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, <br>Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start<br>And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops, <br>In hope to find whatever it is I seek, <br>Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things<br>That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? <br>Or must I be content with discontent<br>As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? <br>And shall I ask at the day's end once more<br>What beauty is, and what I can have meant<br>By happiness? And shall I let all go, <br>Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know<br>That I was happy oft and oft before, <br>Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, <br>How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to, <br>Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+Thomas">Edward Thomas</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=381251" data-title="The Glory de Edward Thomas" data-description="The glory of the beauty of the morning, -
The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; 
The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; 
White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; 
The heat, the..."></div>
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