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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447156" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fever!</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything seems lost and gone.<br>The world seems void; and I alone<br>To mourn its emptiness, that am too weak to <br>mourn:<br>To mope a hermit in a broken cave<br>Imprisoned and forlorn.<br>The youthful wave that dashes on the outside<br>shore,<br>And splits youth’s passions on the moveless stones,<br>Has failed to stir the blood that fills<br>The warrior heart. I only see the bleaching bones,<br>The narrow graves upon the gouged hills,<br>And mope the more.<br>How can the ‘prisoned bird surmise<br>The passages on outer air?<br>Or sing of Freedom to the lonely skies<br>When Freedom is not there?<br>What use is it to try high Fancy’s flight<br>Above the upper blue?<br>The dark soul is darker that the night,<br>And Fancy’s caged too.<br>To introspect, look inward on the mind,<br>Is gazing on a thing all bloody and unclean:<br>‘Twere better that the soul were bright, the gazer <br>blind:<br>The beauty there, and yet no beauty seen.<br>The haunting questions of the bruised brain<br>Tease at the tired heart:<br>‘Do tattered hills still bear unburied slain?<br>And the far-off tear-drops start?<br>Is blood still wet upon the trees?<br>Upon the grass?<br>Do dead grey eyes dim-glazing in the breeze<br>Still stare upon the stumblers as they pass?<br>The long, long dreams that loiter in the stay<br>Of sleep, and hold the mind clutched fast,<br>Have left it trembling at the day<br>With trailing memories of the cruel past.<br>“How may the weary day be spent?-The weary<br>week? <br>Choose thoughts! Choose dreams! What choice?<br>The long mute inward voice<br>Forgets to speak!<br>The ears are deaf; the eyes to beauty blind.<br>Unheeded are the laughing fields afar;<br>The glory of the wheeling western wind;<br>The shivering star.<br>The fault! Lies that with fate? Or with age?<br>The singing poet within his Isles of Peace<br>Is glad! The sage<br>Upon his mountain height! But running blood <br>can’t cease<br>For him who fights-till death;<br>Til smiling lips, besmeared and red with foam,<br>Move faintly with a feeble breath<br>In words of home.<br>‘Tis sad! But still ‘tis rest!<br>And what to show?<br>-A small black wound upon a dauntless breast;<br>True heart, and conscience as the snow.<br>And he knows-has fought-has seen,<br>And now is caged without, yet hears the fight,<br>He wonders what is done, and thinks of what<br>has been;<br>He bears the burden of the dark, and cries for<br>light.<br>But he who prone with wounds and slow disease,<br>Too weak to grapple with the bars-<br>The bars that bind-encaged by the surrounding<br>seas<br>Can only gaze upon his scars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Leon+Gellert">Leon Gellert</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=447156" data-title="Fever! de Leon Gellert" data-description="Everything seems lost and gone.
The world seems void; and I alone
To mourn its emptiness, that am too weak to 
mourn:
To mope a hermit in a broken cave
Imprisoned and forlorn.
The youthful wave that dashes on the outside
shore,
And splits youth’..."></div>
</div>
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