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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=424815" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cento Emulations</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moving finger writes, and, having writ, <br>the Book of Life is signed and sealed to fit.<br>The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, <br>are mirage lures, poor men in shadows cower.<br>I am here now, and gone tomorrow, <br>this vale of tears leads on to sorrow<br>though Green grow the rushes, Ho<br>from dark we spring, to darkness go<br>So gather ye rosebuds while ye may, <br>short lived are darling buds of May.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice<br>naught shall remain for in a trice<br>how tragedy and comedy embrace<br>the rise and fall of all the human race, <br>to his lamented loss, for time to come<br>the Fates bear witness, hear fear's dreaded drum.<br>To cease upon the midnight with no pain<br>means sods remain to never rise again, <br>for who would bear the whips and scorns of time<br>soon sinks, forgotten, corpses cannot rhyme! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! <br>repented soon for in Life's afternoon<br>If we might have a second chance  <br>perhaps we'd forge ahead, advance -<br>I shall be telling this with a sigh -<br>perhaps another road I'd try.<br>Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, <br>my wraith may lament opportunities flown, <br>The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath  <br>no more will pour balm upon my garden path.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(29 February 2010)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Robin">Jonathan Robin</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=424815" data-title="Cento Emulations de Jonathan Robin" data-description="The moving finger writes, and, having writ, 
the Book of Life is signed and sealed to fit.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
are mirage lures, poor men in shadows cower.
I am here now, and gone tomorrow, 
this vale of tears leads on to so..."></div>
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