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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416369" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Art</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What precious thing are you making fast<br>In all these silken lines?<br>And where and to whom will it go at last?<br>Such subtle knots and twines!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am tying up all my love in this,<br>With all its hopes and fears,<br>With all its anguish and all its bliss,<br>And its hours as heavy as years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am going to send it afar, afar,<br>To I know not where above;<br>To that sphere beyond the highest star<br>Where dwells the soul of my Love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But in vain, in vain, would I make it fast<br>With countless subtle twines;<br>For ever its fire breaks out at last,<br>And shrivels all the lines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you have a carrier-dove<br>That can fly over land and sea;<br>And a message for your Love,<br>&quot;Lady, I love but thee!&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this dove will never stir<br>But straight from her to you,<br>And straight from you to her,<br>As you know and she knows too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Will you first ensure, O sage,<br>Your dove that never tires<br>With your message in a cage,<br>Though a cage of golden wires?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or will you fling your dove:<br>&quot;Fly, darling, without rest,<br>Over land and sea to my Love,<br>And fold your wings in her breast&quot;?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Singing is sweet; but be sure of this,<br>Lips only sing when they cannot kiss.<br>Did he ever suspire a tender lay<br>While her presence took his breath away?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Had his fingers been able to toy with her hair<br>Would they have then written the verses fair?<br>Had she let his arm steal round her waist<br>Would the lovely portrait yet be traced?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since he could not embrace it flushed and warm,<br>He has carved in stone the perfect form.<br>Who gives the fine report of the feast?<br>He who got none and enjoyed it least.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Were the wine really slipping down his throat<br>Would his song of the wine advance a note?<br>Will you puff out the music that sways the whirl,<br>Or dance and make love with a pretty girl?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who shall the great battle-story write?<br>Not the hero down in the thick of the fight.<br>Statues and pictures and verse may be grand,<br>But they are not the Life for which they stand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Thomson">James Thomson</a><div class=q>
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What precious thing are you making fast
In all these silken lines?
And where and to whom will it go at last?
Such subtle knots and twines!

I am tying up all my love in this,
With all its hopes and fears,
With all its anguish and all its bliss,..."></div>
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