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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=512855" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Garden Of Boccaccio</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[exerpt]<br>Of late, in one of those most weary hours,<br>When life seems emptied of all genial powers,<br>A dready mood, which he who ne'er has known<br>May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ;<br>And, from the numbing spell to win relief,<br>Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.<br>In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee,<br>I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy !<br>And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,<br>Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake ;<br>O Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal,<br>And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,<br>I but half saw that quiet hand of thine<br>Place on my desk this exquisite design.<br>Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,<br>The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry !<br>An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,<br>Framed in the silent poesy of form.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like flocks adown a newly-bathéd steep<br> Emerging from a mist : or like a stream<br>Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,<br> But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,<br>Gazed by an idle eye with silent might<br>The picture stole upon my inward sight.<br>A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,<br>As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.<br>And one by one (I know not whence) were brought<br>All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought<br>In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost<br>Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ;<br>Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,<br>Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ;<br>Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan<br>Of manhood, musing what and whence is man !<br>...<br>And many a verse which to myself I sang,<br>That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,<br>Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew'd :<br>...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry<br>Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,<br>And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand,<br>Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ;<br>...<br>I see no longer ! I myself am there,<br>Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.<br>'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,<br>And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings :<br>Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells<br>From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.<br>With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,<br>And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.<br>...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,<br>...<br>With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Samuel+Taylor+Coleridge">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</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=512855" data-title="The Garden Of Boccaccio de Samuel Taylor Coleridge" data-description="[exerpt]
Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
A dready mood, which he who ne'er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the Past for..."></div>
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