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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421376" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Oldest Drama</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.<br> And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad,<br> Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,<br> and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .<br> And shut the door upon him and went out.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Immortal story that no mother's heart<br> Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain<br>That rent her soul! Immortal not by art<br> Which makes a long past sorrow sting again</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like grief of yesterday: but since it said<br> In simplest word the truth which all may see,<br>Where any mother sobs above her dead<br> And plays anew the silent tragedy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+McCrae">John McCrae</a><div class=q>
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 And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad,
 Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
 and then died. And she went up, and la..."></div>
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