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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472355" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>After A Lecture On Keats</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Purpureos spargam flores.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave<br>Is lying on thy Roman grave,<br>Yet on its turf young April sets<br>Her store of slender violets;<br>Though all the Gods their garlands shower,<br>I too may bring one purple flower.<br>Alas! what blossom shall I bring,<br>That opens in my Northern spring?<br>The garden beds have all run wild,<br>So trim when I was yet a child;<br>Flat plantains and unseemly stalks<br>Have crept across the gravel walks;<br>The vines are dead, long, long ago,<br>The almond buds no longer blow.<br>No more upon its mound I see<br>The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis;<br>Where once the tulips used to show,<br>In straggling tufts the pansies grow;<br>The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem,<br>The flowering 'Star of Bethlehem,'<br>Though its long blade of glossy green<br>And pallid stripe may still be seen.<br>Nature, who treads her nobles down,<br>And gives their birthright to the clown,<br>Has sown her base-born weedy things<br>Above the garden's queens and kings.<br>Yet one sweet flower of ancient race<br>Springs in the old familiar place.<br>When snows were melting down the vale,<br>And Earth unlaced her icy mail,<br>And March his stormy trumpet blew,<br>And tender green came peeping through,<br>I loved the earliest one to seek<br>That broke the soil with emerald beak,<br>And watch the trembling bells so blue<br>Spread on the column as it grew.<br>Meek child of earth! thou wilt not shame<br>The sweet, dead poet's holy name;<br>The God of music gave thee birth,<br>Called from the crimson-spotted earth,<br>Where, sobbing his young life away,<br>His own fair Hyacinthus lay.<br>The hyacinth my garden gave<br>Shall lie upon that Roman grave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q>
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THE wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave
Is lying on thy Roman grave,
Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets;
Though all the Gods their garlands shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas! ..."></div>
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