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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508070" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Metrical Letter, Written From London.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;<br>I love the homely and familiar phrase;<br>And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,<br>However quaint amid the measured line<br>The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill<br>When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,<br>Sirring and Madaming as civilly<br>As if the road between the heart and lips<br>Were such a weary and Laplandish way<br>That the poor travellers came to the red gates<br>Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,<br>For many a day my Memory has played<br>The creditor with me on your account,<br>And made me shame to think that I should owe<br>So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,<br>Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear<br>So heavy a pack of business, that albeit<br>I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race<br>Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I<br>That for a moment you should lay to me<br>Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart<br>That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some<br>Who know how warm it beats. I am not one<br>Who can play off my smiles and courtesies<br>To every Lady of her lap dog tired<br>Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend<br>Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;<br>Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up<br>At once without a seed and take no root,<br>Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere<br>The little circle of domestic life<br>I would be known and loved; the world beyond<br>Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think<br>That you should know me well, for you and I<br>Grew up together, and when we look back<br>Upon old times our recollections paint<br>The same familiar faces. Did I wield<br>The wand of Merlin's magic I would make<br>Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,<br>Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood<br>That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,<br>The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle<br>Like that where whilome old Apollidon<br>Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid<br>The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,<br>That we might stand upon the beach, and mark<br>The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,<br>And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound<br>Told us that never mariner should reach<br>Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle<br>We might renew the days of infancy,<br>And Life like a long childhood pass away,<br>Without one care. It may be, Margaret,<br>That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,<br>For I am not of those who live estranged<br>Of choice, till at the last they join their race<br>In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,<br>Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack<br>So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine<br>Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.<br>If not, if I should never get beyond<br>This Vanity town, there is another world<br>Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,<br>I gaze at night into the boundless sky,<br>And think that I shall there be born again,<br>The exalted native of some better star;<br>And like the rude American I hope<br>To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Southey">Robert Southey</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=508070" data-title="Metrical Letter, Written From London. de Robert Southey" data-description="Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;
I love the homely and familiar phrase;
And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,
However quaint amid the measured line
The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
When delicate tongues disclaim old terms ..."></div>
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