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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409553" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Oliver Basselin. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the Valley of the Vire<br>Still is seen an ancient mill,<br>With its gables quaint and queer,<br>And beneath the window-sill,<br>On the stone,<br>These words alone:<br>'Oliver Basselin lived here.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far above it, on the steep,<br>Ruined stands the old Chateau;<br>Nothing but the donjon-keep<br>Left for shelter or for show.<br>Its vacant eyes<br>Stare at the skies,<br>Stare at the valley green and deep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once a convent, old and brown,<br>Looked, but ah! it looks no more,<br>From the neighboring hillside down<br>On the rushing and the roar<br>Of the stream<br>Whose sunny gleam<br>Cheers the little Norman town. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In that darksome mill of stone,<br>To the water's dash and din,<br>Careless, humble, and unknown,<br>Sang the poet Basselin<br>Songs that fill<br>That ancient mill<br>With a splendor of its own. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Never feeling of unrest<br>Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed;<br>Only made to be his nest,<br>All the lovely valley seemed;<br>No desire<br>Of soaring higher<br>Stirred or fluttered in his breast. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">True, his songs were not divine;<br>Were not songs of that high art,<br>Which, as winds do in the pine,<br>Find an answer in each heart;<br>But the mirth<br>Of this green earth<br>Laughed and revelled in his line. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the alehouse and the inn,<br>Opening on the narrow street,<br>Came the loud, convivial din,<br>Singing and applause of feet,<br>The laughing lays<br>That in those days<br>Sang the poet Basselin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the castle, cased in steel,<br>Knights, who fought at Agincourt,<br>Watched and waited, spur on heel;<br>But the poet sang for sport<br>Songs that rang<br>Another clang,<br>Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the convent, clad in gray,<br>Sat the monks in lonely cells,<br>Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,<br>And the poet heard their bells;<br>But his rhymes<br>Found other chimes,<br>Nearer to the earth than they. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone are all the barons bold,<br>Gone are all the knights and squires,<br>Gone the abbot stern and cold,<br>And the brotherhood of friars;<br>Not a name<br>Remains to fame,<br>From those mouldering days of old! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the poet's memory here<br>Of the landscape makes a part;<br>Like the river, swift and clear,<br>Flows his song through many a heart;<br>Haunting still<br>That ancient mill,<br>In the Valley of the Vire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</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=409553" data-title="Oliver Basselin. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First) de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="In the Valley of the Vire
Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,
On the stone,
These words alone:
'Oliver Basselin lived here.' 

Far above it, on the steep,
Ruined stands the old Chateau;
Not..."></div>
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