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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=456503" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lines Written in Kensington Gardens</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In this lone, open glade I lie,<br>Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;<br>And at its end, to stay the eye,<br>Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Birds here make song, each bird has his,<br>Across the girdling city's hum.<br>How green under the boughs it is!<br>How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes a child will cross the glade<br>To take his nurse his broken toy;<br>Sometimes a thrush flit overhead<br>Deep in her unknown day's employ.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here at my feet what wonders pass,<br>What endless, active life is here!<br>What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!<br>An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod<br>Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out,<br>And, eased of basket and of rod,<br>Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the huge world, which roars hard by,<br>Be others happy if they can!<br>But in my helpless cradle I<br>Was breathed on by the rural Pan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd,<br>Think often, as I hear them rave,<br>That peace has left the upper world<br>And now keeps only in the grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet here is peace for ever new!<br>When I who watch them am away,<br>Still all things in this glade go through<br>The changes of their quiet day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then to their happy rest they pass!<br>The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,<br>The night comes down upon the grass,<br>The child sleeps warmly in his bed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Calm soul of all things! make it mine<br>To feel, amid the city's jar,<br>That there abides a peace of thine,<br>Man did not make, and cannot mar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The will to neither strive nor cry,<br>The power to feel with others give!<br>Calm, calm me more! nor let me die<br>Before I have begun to live.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Arnold">Matthew Arnold</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=456503" data-title="Lines Written in Kensington Gardens de Matthew Arnold" data-description="In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!

Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the..."></div>
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