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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448035" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To A Town Poet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Snatch the departing mood;<br>Make yours its emptying reed, and pipe us still<br>Faith in the time, faith in our common blood,<br>Faith in the least of good:<br>Song cannot fail if these its spirits fill!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What if your heritage be<br>The huddled trees along the smoky ways;<br>At a street’s end the stretch of lilac sea;<br>The vender, swart but free,<br>Crying his yellow wares across the haze?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your verse awaits you there;<br>For Love is Love though Latin swords be rust,<br>The keen Greek driven from gossipping mall and square;<br>And Care is still but Care<br>Though Homer and his seven towns are dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus Beauty lasts, and, lo!<br>Now Proserpine is barred from Enna’s hills,<br>The flower she plucked yet makes an April show,<br>Sets some town still a-glow,<br>And yours the Vision of the Daffodils.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Old-World folk knew not<br>More surge-like sounds than urban winters bring<br>Up from the wharves at dusk to every spot;<br>And no Sicilian plot<br>More fire than heaps our tulips in the spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Strait is the road of Song,<br>And they that be the last are oft the first;<br>Fret not for fame; the years are kind though long;<br>You, in the teasing throng,<br>May take all time with one shrewd lyric burst.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be reverend and know<br>Ill shall not last, or waste the ploughëd land;<br>Or creeds sting timid souls; and naught at all,<br>Whatever else befall,<br>Can keep us from the hollow of God’s hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let trick of words be past;<br>Strict with the thought, unfearful of the form,<br>So shall you find the way and hold it fast,<br>The world hear, at the last,<br>The horns of morning sound above the storm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lizette+Woodworth+Reese">Lizette Woodworth Reese</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=448035" data-title="To A Town Poet de Lizette Woodworth Reese" data-description="Snatch the departing mood;
Make yours its emptying reed, and pipe us still
Faith in the time, faith in our common blood,
Faith in the least of good:
Song cannot fail if these its spirits fill!

What if your heritage be
The huddled trees along the ..."></div>
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