<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409841" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ultima Thule: Robert Burns</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see amid the fields of Ayr<br>A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,<br>Sings at his task<br>So clear, we know not if it is<br>The laverock's song we hear, or his,<br>Nor care to ask. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For him the ploughing of those fields<br>A more ethereal harvest yields<br>Than sheaves of grain;<br>Songs flush with purple bloom the rye,<br>The plover's call, the curlew's cry,<br>Sing in his brain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Touched by his hand, the wayside weed<br>Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed<br>Beside the stream<br>Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass<br>And heather, where his footsteps pass,<br>The brighter seem. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He sings of love, whose flame illumes<br>The darkness of lone cottage rooms;<br>He feels the force,<br>The treacherous undertow and stress<br>Of wayward passions, and no less<br>The keen remorse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">At moments, wrestling with his fate,<br>His voice is harsh, but not with hate;<br>The brushwood, hung<br>Above the tavern door, lets fall<br>Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall<br>Upon his tongue. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But still the music of his song<br>Rises o'er all, elate and strong;<br>Its master-chords<br>Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,<br>Its discords but an interlude<br>Between the words. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then to die so young and leave<br>Unfinished what he might achieve!<br>Yet better sure<br>Is this, than wandering up and down<br>An old man in a country town,<br>Infirm and poor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For now he haunts his native land<br>As an immortal youth; his hand<br>Guides every plough;<br>He sits beside each ingle-nook,<br>His voice is in each rushing brook,<br>Each rustling bough. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His presence haunts this room to-night,<br>A form of mingled mist and light<br>From that far coast.<br>Welcome beneath this roof of mine!<br>Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,<br>Dear guest and ghost!</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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=409841" data-title="Ultima Thule: Robert Burns de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="I see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, Nor care to ask. For him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields Than she..."></div> </div> </div>

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