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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518963" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Limitations</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you could crowd them into forty lines! <br>Yes; you can do it, once you get a start; <br>All that you want is waiting in your head, <br>For long-ago you’ve learnt it off by heart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . <br>Begin: your mind’s the room where you have slept,<br>(Don’t pause for rhymes), till twilight woke you early. <br>The window stands wide-open, as it stood <br>When tree-tops loomed enchanted for a child <br>Hearing the dawn’s first thrushes through the wood <br>Warbling (you know the words) serene and wild.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You’ve said it all before: you dreamed of Death, <br>A dim Apollo in the bird-voiced breeze <br>That drifts across the morning veiled with showers, <br>While golden weather shines among dark trees. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You’ve got your limitations; let them sing, <br>And all your life will waken with a cry: <br>Why should you halt when rapture’s on the wing <br>And you’ve no limit but the cloud-flocked sky?... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But some chap shouts, ‘Here, stop it; that’s been done!’— <br>As God might holloa to the rising sun, <br>And then relent, because the glorying rays <br>Remind Him of green-glinting Eden days, <br>And Adam’s trustful eyes as he looks up <br>From carving eagles on his beechwood cup. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Young Adam knew his job; he could condense <br>Life to an eagle from the unknown immense.... <br>Go on, whoever you are; your lines can be <br>A whisper in the music from the weirs <br>Of song that plunge and tumble toward the sea <br>That is the uncharted mercy of our tears. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . <br>I told you it was easy! ... Words are fools <br>Who follow blindly, once they get a lead. <br>But thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the pools <br>Of quiet; seldom-seen: and all you need <br>Is just that flash of joy above your dream. <br>So, when those forty platitudes are done, <br>You’ll hear a bird-note calling from the stream <br>That wandered through your childhood; and the sun <br>Will strike the old flaming wonder from the waters.... <br>And there’ll be forty lines not yet begun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Siegfried+Sassoon">Siegfried Sassoon</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=518963" data-title="Limitations de Siegfried Sassoon" data-description="If you could crowd them into forty lines! 
Yes; you can do it, once you get a start; 
All that you want is waiting in your head, 
For long-ago you’ve learnt it off by heart. 

. . . . 
Begin: your mind’s the room where you have slept,
(Don’t..."></div>
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