<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507058" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Winter at St Andrews</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The city once again doth wear<br>Her wonted dress of winter's bride,<br>Her mantle woven of misty air,<br>With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.<br>She sits above the seething tide,<br>Of all her summer robes forlorn -<br>And dead is all her summer pride -<br>The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All round, the landscape stretches bare,<br>The bleak fields lying far and wide,<br>Monotonous, with here and there<br>A lone tree on a lone hillside.<br>No more the land is glorified<br>With golden gleams of ripening corn,<br>Scarce is a cheerful hue descried -<br>The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For me, I do not greatly care<br>Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.<br>To me the place is thrice as fair<br>In winter as in summer-tide:<br>With kindlier memories allied<br>Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn.<br>What care I, though the earth may hide<br>The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus I unto my friend replied,<br>When, on a chill late autumn morn,<br>He pointed to the tree, and cried,<br>`The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Fuller+Murray">Robert Fuller Murray</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=507058" data-title="Winter at St Andrews de Robert Fuller Murray" data-description="The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter's bride, Her mantle woven of misty air, With saffron sunlight faintly dyed. She sits above the seething tide, Of all her summer robes forlorn - And dead is all her summer pride - The leaves ..."></div> </div> </div>

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