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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409588" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spirit of Poetry, The</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a quiet spirit in these woods,<br>That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;<br>Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,<br>The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,<br>The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.<br>With what a tender and impassioned voice<br>It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,<br>When the fast ushering star of morning comes<br>O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;<br>Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,<br>In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,<br>Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves<br>In the green valley, where the silver brook,<br>From its full laver, pours the white cascade;<br>And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,<br>Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.<br>And frequent, on the everlasting hills,<br>Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself<br>In all the dark embroidery of the storm,<br>And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid<br>The silent majesty of these deep woods,<br>lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,<br>As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air<br>Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards<br>Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.<br>For them there was an eloquent voice in all<br>The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,<br>The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,<br>Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,<br>The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun<br>Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,<br>Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,<br>Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,<br>The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,<br>In many a lazy syllable, repeating<br>Their old poetic legends to the wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill<br>The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,<br>My busy fancy oft embodies it,<br>As a bright image of the light and beauty<br>That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms<br>We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues<br>That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds<br>When the sun sets. Within her tender eye<br>The heaven of April, with its changing light,<br>And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,<br>And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair<br>Is like the summer tresses of the trees,<br>When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek<br>Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,<br>With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,<br>It is so like the gentle air of Spring,<br>As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes<br>Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy<br>To have it round us, and her silver voice<br>Is the rich music of a summer bird,<br>Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.</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=409588" data-title="Spirit of Poetry, The de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a ..."></div>
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