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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Now, O Friend, Whom Noiselessly The Snows</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows<br>Settle around, and whose small chamber grows<br>Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The kindly hill, as to complete our hap,<br>Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap;<br>Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees<br>And ring of walls, we sit between her knees;<br>A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung<br>With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung<br>The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen<br>Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green.<br>A disused quarry, furnished with a seat<br>Sacred to pipes and meditation meet<br>For such a sunny and retired nook.<br>There in the clear, warm mornings many a book<br>Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills<br>That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills<br>Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky<br>To keep my loose attention. . . .<br>Horace has sat with me whole mornings through:<br>And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true;<br>And chattering Pepys, and a few beside<br>That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide,<br>The calm and certain stay of garden-life,<br>Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife.<br>There is about the small secluded place<br>A garnish of old times; a certain grace<br>Of pensive memories lays about the braes:<br>The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days.<br>Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil,<br>Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill<br>Had made his secret church, in rain or snow,<br>He cheers the chosen residue from woe.<br>All night the doors stood open, come who might,<br>The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night.<br>Nor are there wanting later tales; of how<br>Prince Charlie's Highlanders . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have had talents, too. In life's first hour<br>God crowned with benefits my childish head.<br>Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower<br>Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead.<br>Full many a shining godhead disappeared.<br>From the bright rank that once adorned her brow<br>The old child's Olympus</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one,<br>As, one by one, the means to reach them went,<br>As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace,<br>I squandered what . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There shut the door, alas! on many a hope<br>Too many;<br>My face is set to the autumnal slope,<br>Where the loud winds shall . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There shut the door, alas! on many a hope,<br>And yet some hopes remain that shall decide<br>My rest of years and down the autumnal slope.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that I<br>Loved, as all men have loved them; gone!<br>I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high -<br>Dreams of the knight's stout heart and tempered will.<br>Not in Elysian lands they take their way;<br>Not as of yore across the gay champaign,<br>Towards some dream city, towered . . .<br>and my . . .<br>The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain,<br>Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey sky<br>November's russet woodlands toss and wail,<br>Still the white road goes thro' them, still may I,<br>Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I and my like, improvident sailors!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At whose light fall awaking, all my heart<br>Grew populous with gracious, favoured thought,<br>And all night long thereafter, hour by hour,<br>The pageant of dead love before my eyes<br>Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast head<br>Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome's imperial hour,<br>Followed the car; and I . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Louis+Stevenson">Robert Louis Stevenson</a><div class=q>
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Settle around, and whose small chamber grows
Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:

* * * * *

The kindly hill, as to complete our hap,
Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap;
Well sheltered in our ..."></div>
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