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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409076" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lines To R. L.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">That which we are and shall be is made up<br>Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf<br>The crimson stains bear witness of its spring;<br>And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shell<br>Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth.<br>Ourselves are our own records; if we looked<br>Rightly into that blotted crimson page<br>Within our bosoms, then there were no need<br>To chronicle our stories; for the heart<br>Hath, like the earth, its strata, and contains<br>Its past within its present. Well for us,<br>And our most cherished secrets, that within<br>The round of being few there are who read<br>Beneath the surface. Else our very forms,<br>The merest gesture of our hands, might tell<br>Much we would hide forever. Know you not<br>Those eyes, in whose dark heaven I have gazed<br>More curiously than on my favorite stars,<br>Are deeper for such griefs as they have seen,<br>And brighter for the fancies they have shrined,<br>And sweeter for the loves which they have talked?<br>Oh! that I had the power to read their smiles,<br>Or sound the depth of all their glorious gloom.<br>So should I learn your history from its birth,<br>Through all its glad and grave experiences,<br>Better than if -- (your journal in my hand,<br>Written as only women write, with all<br>A woman's shades and shapes of feeling, traced<br>As with the fine touch of a needle's point) --<br>I followed you from that bright hour when first<br>I saw you in the garden 'mid the flowers,<br>To that wherein a letter from your hand<br>Made me all rich with the dear name of friend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Timrod">Henry Timrod</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=409076" data-title="Lines To R. L. de Henry Timrod" data-description="That which we are and shall be is made up
Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf
The crimson stains bear witness of its spring;
And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shell
Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth.
Ourselves are our own rec..."></div>
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