<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508574" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poet's Path</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My garden hath a slender path<br>With ivy overgrown,<br>A secret place where once would pace<br>A pot all alone;<br>I see him now with fretted brow,<br>Plunged deep in thought;<br>And sometimes he would write maybe,<br>And sometimes he would not.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A verse a day he used to say<br>Keeps worry from the door;<br>Without the stink of printer's ink<br>How life would be a bore!<br>And so from chime of breakfast time<br>To supper he would beat<br>The pathway flat, a mossy mat<br>For his poetic feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He wrote, I'm told, of gods of old<br>And mythologic men;<br>Far better he had sung, maybe,<br>Of plain folks now and then;<br>With bitterness he would confess<br>Too lofty was his aim. . . . <br>And then with woe I saw him throw<br>His poems to the flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He went away one bitter day<br>When death was in the sky;<br>No further word I ever heard<br>Beyond his last goodbye.<br>Did battle grim take toll of him<br>In heaven-rocking wrath?<br>Oh did he write in starry flight<br>His name in flame on hell-brewed night?<br> ... Well, there's my poet's path.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</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=508574" data-title="Poet's Path de Robert William Service" data-description="My garden hath a slender path With ivy overgrown, A secret place where once would pace A pot all alone; I see him now with fretted brow, Plunged deep in thought; And sometimes he would write maybe, And sometimes he would not. A verse a day he use..."></div> </div> </div>

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