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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420995" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Meg Merrilies</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">OLD Meg she was a gipsy;<br> And liv'd upon the moors:<br>Her bed it was the brown heath turf,<br> And her house was out of doors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her apples were swart blackberries,<br> Her currants, pods o' broom;<br>Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,<br> Her book a church-yard tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her brothers were the craggy hills,<br> Her sisters larchen trees;<br>Alone with her great family<br> She liv'd as she did please.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No breakfast had she many a morn,<br> No dinner many a noon,<br>And 'stead of supper she would stare<br> Full hard against the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But every morn, of woodbine fresh<br> She made her garlanding,<br>And every night the dark glen yew<br> She wove, and she would sing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And with her fingers old and brown<br> She plaited mats o' rushes,<br>And gave them to the cottagers<br> She met among the bushes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,<br> And tall as Amazon:<br>An old red blanket cloak she wore,<br> A chip hat had she on.<br>God rest her aged bones somewhere---<br> She died full long agone!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keats">John Keats</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=420995" data-title="Meg Merrilies de John Keats" data-description="OLD Meg she was a gipsy;
 And liv'd upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
 And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
 Her currants, pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
 Her book a churc..."></div>
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