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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395833" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Morning in Norfolk</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As it has for so long<br>come wind and all weather<br>the house glimmers among<br>the mists of a little<br>river that splinters, it<br>seems, a landscape of<br>winter dreams. In the far<br>fields stand a few<br>bare trees decorating<br>those mists like the fanned<br>patterns of Georgian<br>skylights. The home land<br>of any heart persists<br>there, suffused with<br>memories and mists not<br>quite concealing the<br>identities and lost<br>lives of those loved once<br>but loved most. They haunt it<br>still. To the watermeadows<br>that lie by the heart they<br>return as do flocks of swallows<br>to the fields they have known<br>and flickered and flown so<br>often and so unforgettably over.<br>What fish<br>play in the bright wishing<br>wells of your painted<br>stretches, O secret<br>untainted little Bure,<br>I could easily tell,<br>for would they not be<br>those flashing dashers<br>the sometimes glittering<br>presentiments, images<br>and idealizations<br>of what had to be?<br>The dawn has brightened the<br>shallows and shadows and<br>the Bure sidles and idles<br>through weed isles and fallen<br>willows, and under<br>Itteringham Mill, and<br>there is a kind of rain-<br>drenched flittering in the<br>air, the night swan still<br>sleeps in her wings and over it all<br>the dawn heaps up the hanging<br>fire of the day.<br>Fowell's tractor blusters<br>out of its shed and drags<br>a day's work, like a piled sled<br>behind it. The crimson<br>December morning brims over<br>Norfolk, turning<br>to burning Turner<br>this aqueous water colour<br>idyll that earlier gleamed<br>so green that it seemed<br>drowned. What further<br>sanction, what blessing<br>can the man of heart intercede for<br>than the supreme remission<br>of dawn? For then the mind<br>looking backward upon its<br>too sullied yesterday,<br>the rotting stack of <br>resolution and refuse,<br>reads in the rainbowed sky<br>a greater covenant,<br>the tremendous pronouncement:<br>the day forgives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Holy the heart in<br>its proper occupation<br>praising and appraising this<br>godsend, the dawn.<br>Will you lift up your eyes<br>my blind spirit and see<br>such evidence of<br>forgiveness in the heavens<br>morning after golden<br>morning than even<br>the blind can see?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Barker">George Barker</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=395833" data-title="Morning in Norfolk de George Barker" data-description="As it has for so long
come wind and all weather
the house glimmers among
the mists of a little
river that splinters, it
seems, a landscape of
winter dreams. In the far
fields stand a few
bare trees decorating
those mists like the fanned
patterns o..."></div>
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