Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420802" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Sycamores</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the outskirts of the village <br>On the river's winding shores <br>Stand the Occidental plane-trees, <br>Stand the ancient sycamores. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">One long century hath been numbered, <br>And another half-way told <br>Since the rustic Irish gleeman <br>Broke for them the virgin mould. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Deftly set to Celtic music <br>At his violin's sound they grew, <br>Through the moonlit eves of summer, <br>Making Amphion's fable true. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rise again, thou poor Hugh Tallant! <br>Pass in erkin green along <br>With thy eyes brim full of laughter, <br>And thy mouth as full of song. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pioneer of Erin's outcasts <br>With his fiddle and his pack- <br>Little dreamed the village Saxons <br>Of the myriads at his back. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How he wrought with spade and fiddle, <br>Delved by day and sang by night, <br>With a hand that never wearied <br>And a heart forever light,--- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the gay tradition mingles <br>With a record grave and drear <br>Like the rollic air of Cluny <br>With the solemn march of Mear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the box-tree, white with blossoms, <br>Made the sweet May woodlands glad, <br>And the Aronia by the river <br>Lighted up the swarming shad, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the bulging nets swept shoreward <br>With their silver-sided haul, <br>Midst the shouts of dripping fishers, <br>He was merriest of them all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When, among the jovial huskers <br>Love stole in at Labor's side <br>With the lusty airs of England <br>Soft his Celtic measures vied. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Songs of love and wailing lyke-wake <br>And the merry fair's carouse; <br>Of the wild Red Fox of Erin <br>And the Woman of Three Cows, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">By the blazing hearths of winter <br>Pleasant seemed his simple tales, <br>Midst the grimmer Yorkshire legends <br>And the mountain myths of Wales. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How the souls in Purgatory <br>Scrambled up from fate forlorn <br>On St. Keven's sackcloth ladder <br>Slyly hitched to Satan's horn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of the fiddler who at Tara <br>Played all night to ghosts of kings; <br>Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairies <br>Dancing in their moorland rings! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jolliest of our birds of singing <br>Best he loved the Bob-o-link. <br>&quot;Hush!&quot; he'd say, &quot;the tipsy fairies! <br>Hear the little folks in drink!&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle, <br>Singing through the ancient town, <br>Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant <br>Hath Tradtion handed down. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not a stone his grave discloses; <br>But if yet his spirit walks <br>Tis beneath the trees he planted <br>And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Green memorials of the gleeman! <br>Linking still the river-shores, <br>With their shadows cast by sunset <br>Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the Father of his Country <br>Through the north-land riding came <br>And the roofs were starred with banners, <br>And the steeples rang acclaim,--- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When each war-scarred Continental <br>Leaving smithy, mill,.and farm, <br>Waved his rusted sword in welcome, <br>And shot off his old king's-arm,--- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Slowly passed that august Presence <br>Down the thronged and shouting street; <br>Village girls as white as angels <br>Scattering flowers around his feet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Midway, where the plane-tree's shadow <br>Deepest fell, his rein he drew: <br>On his stately head, uncovered, <br>Cool and soft the west-wind blew. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And he stood up in his stirrups, <br>Looking up and looking down <br>On the hills of Gold and Silver <br>Rimming round the little town,--- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the river, full of sunshine, <br>To the lap of greenest vales <br>Winding down from wooded headlands, <br>Willow-skirted, white with sails. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And he said, the landscape sweeping <br>Slowly with his ungloved hand <br>&quot;I have seen no prospect fairer <br>In this goodly Eastern land.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the bugles of his escort <br>Stirred to life the cavalcade: <br>And that head, so bare and stately <br>Vanished down the depths of shade. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ever since, in town and farm-house, <br>Life has had its ebb and flow; <br>Thrice hath passed the human harvest <br>To its garner green and low. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the trees the gleeman planted, <br>Through the changes, changeless stand; <br>As the marble calm of Tadmor <br>Mocks the deserts shifting sand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the level moon at rising <br>Silvers o'er each stately shaft; <br>Still beneath them, half in shadow, <br>Singing, glides the pleasure craft; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still beneath them, arm-enfolded, <br>Love and Youth together stray; <br>While, as heart to heart beats faster, <br>More and more their feet delay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar, <br>On the open hillside justice wrought, <br>Singing, as he drew his stitches, <br>Songs his German masters taught. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Singing, with his gray hair floating <br>Round a rosy ample face,--- <br>Now a thousand Saxon craftsmen <br>Stitch and hammer in his place. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the pastoral lanes so grassy <br>Now are Traffic's dusty streets; <br>From the village, grown a city, <br>Fast the rural grace retreats. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, still green and tall and stately, <br>On the river's winding shores, <br>Stand the occidental plane-trees, <br>Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</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=420802" data-title="The Sycamores de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="In the outskirts of the village 
On the river's winding shores 
Stand the Occidental plane-trees, 
Stand the ancient sycamores. 

One long century hath been numbered, 
And another half-way told 
Since the rustic Irish gleeman 
Broke for them the v..."></div>
</div>
</div>