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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384578" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Songs Of A Country Home</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow<br>What time the tulips first begin to blow,<br>Has one sweet joy, still left for him to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is like early loves' imagining;<br>That fragile pleasure, which the Tulips bring,<br>When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not all the gardens later royal train,<br>Not great triumphant Roses, when they reign,<br>Can bring that delicate delight again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One of the sweetest hours is this;<br>(Of all I think we like it best <br>A little restful oasis,<br>Between the breakfast, and the post.<br>Just south of coffee, and of toast,<br>Just north of daily task and duty;<br>Just west of dreams, this Island gleams,<br>A fertile spot of peace and beauty.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We wander out across the lawn;<br>We idle by a bush in bloom;<br>The Household pets come following on;<br>Or if the day is one of gloom,<br>We loiter in a pleasant room<br>Or from a casement, lean and chatter.<br>Then comes the mail, like sudden hail,<br>And off we scatter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When roses die, in languid August days,<br>We leave the Garden, to its fallen ways;<br>And seek the shelter of wide porticos,<br>Where Honeysuckle, in defiance blows<br>Undaunted by the Sun's too ardent rays.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The matron Summer, turns a wistful gaze<br>Across green valleys, back to tender Mays;<br>And something of her large contentment goes,<br>When roses die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet all her subtle fascination stays<br>To lure us into idle sweet delays.<br>The lowered awning, by the hammock shows<br>Inviting nooks for dreaming and repose;<br>Oh, restful are the pleasures of those days<br>When roses die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The summer folk, fled back to town;<br>The green woods changed to red and brown;<br>A sound upon the frosty air<br>Of windows closing everywhere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then the log, lapped by a blaze.<br>Oh, what is better than these days;<br>With books and friends and love a-near;<br>Go on, gay world, but leave me here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ella+Wheeler+Wilcox">Ella Wheeler Wilcox</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=384578" data-title="Songs Of A Country Home de Ella Wheeler Wilcox" data-description="I

Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the tulips first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy, still left for him to know.

It is like early loves' imagining;
That fragile pleasure, which the Tulips bring,
When suddenly we see them, ..."></div>
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