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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=461403" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To My Country</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">With love of my own race I cling unto my country,<br>Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry;<br>The shame alone of all her blood bought glory,<br>Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride,<br>And the ancestral faith's traditions dark,<br>With woe have penetrated all my heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say;<br>The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding,<br>In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing--<br>The flood's high water on all sides in May.<br>By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness,<br>Through the lone wilderness and village desolate,<br>How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling<br>To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great,<br>The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high<br>The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest,<br>On distant hills the silver birches I descry,<br>Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest.<br>Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant,<br>I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant,<br>The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again,<br>The window panels carved, of varied stain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested,<br>Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd,<br>Watching the villager,--young, happy, festive--<br>And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mikhail+Yuryevich+Lermontov">Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov</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=461403" data-title="To My Country de Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov" data-description="With love of my own race I cling unto my country,
Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry;
The shame alone of all her blood bought glory,
Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride,
And the ancestral faith's traditions dark,
With woe have pene..."></div>
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